SherlollyPrompts
by MizJoely
Summary: A new collection of Sherlolly one-shots from prompts I've received or inspired by fanart. Ratings will vary, so check over the notes on the chapters before reading!
1. The Rosie Effect

_Welcome to my new collection of one-shots, since I reached my goal of 221 stories for Sherlollipops (now renamed '221 Sherlollipops'). This one is for_ _doctor-molly-hooper-holmes on tumblr, who requested a "Sherlock and Molly babysit Rosie" drabble. This one is rated T and is a wee bit cracky._

* * *

"It's not my fault!"

"It's entirely your fault! You're the one who volunteered us to watch Rosie for a week while John went to a medical conference in bloody Finland! And you're the one who got Mike to give me the week off! Without asking me first!"

Molly and Sherlock traded glares while their god-daughter slept on, undisturbed their whisper-hissed exchange, in the moses basket at the foot of Sherlock's bed.

The bed her god-parents were currently occupying.

Naked.

"Well how was I supposed to know that babysitting would bring out your long-buried nesting instincts?" Sherlock grumbled.

"And how was I supposed to know that babysitting together would bring out your long-buried sexing instincts?" Molly hissed back as she scrambled to find her underclothes.

"'Sexing' instincts? That's not even a word?" Sherlock said, his expression one of deepest outrage.

A soft noise from the moses basket caught their attention, and they both peered down to make sure she was okay. Yup, still sleeping, just stirring a bit and sucking her thumb. Molly's expression softened. "She's still asleep," she said unnecessarily. Her smile turned into a scowl as she pointed at Sherlock. "No thanks to you!"

He had the gall to smirk at her. "Yes, well, what can I say? Even a strangled whisper sounds sexy as hell when it's your new lover calling out your name because you've just given her an orgasm!"

Molly groaned and rubbed her eyes. "Sherlock, this was such a bad idea…we are the worst babysitters - no, the worst god-parents! - ever!"

The feel of his arms around her startled her, but she allowed him to haul her back onto the bed so they could rest against the headboard. "Molly, are you having second thoughts, or are you worried that _I'm_ having second thoughts?"

She peeked up at him through her extremely mussed up hair. "Um, bit of both?"

"Well, don't," he said firmly. "I'm glad we did it, although perhaps next time we should try and do it when there isn't a sleeping infant in the same room."

Molly smiled at him. "Definitely," she agreed. Another sound from the moses basket had her scrambling off the bed. "She's waking up for real, get dressed, we'll have to change and feed her!"

"Of course," Sherlock agreed calmly, still lounging comfortably on the bed, watching as she started throwing on her clothes. "And after that, we can talk about how many of our own we want, agreed?"

Rosie's cries interrupted whatever response - if any - Molly was going to make.

(But when the subject was broached again, they both agreed on two.)


	2. Garmisch

_Prompt from geekyangie on tumblr: The letter G, Rated E, Bedsharing Trope (E being M here on fanfic of course). Enjoy!_

* * *

The hotel was charming, the hostess at the desk friendly and helpful, the weather was a delight, the view breathtaking…and Molly Hooper was seriously annoyed.

"One room left? With a queen-sized bed only? No doubles? Sherlock, I thought you made the reservations weeks ago!" she grumbled as they walked to the elevator, suitcases in hand.

Sherlock shrugged, looking not at all apologetic. "Must have slipped my mind. Still, we're lucky they had a room left and we'll just have to make do. Won't be any different than at your flat so I'm not sure what you're so put out about."

"I'm put out because you promised this holiday would be relaxing and enjoyable, and now it's going to be _you_ hogging the covers when you actually sleep, and keeping _me_ awake the rest of the time because you're bored!"

Sherlock shrugged again, and Molly resisted the urge to slug him. Hard. "Fine," she huffed as they reached their floor. "But I get to pick the side!"

Not bothering to wait for him, she strode down the hall until she found their room…and then had to wait for him anyway as he had both key cards in his possession.

Even the sight of the lovely room - with its even lovelier view of the Alps - wasn't enough to put her in a good mood. She and Sherlock had come to terms with their manipulated exchange of "I love you's" by his secret psycho sister in the weeks that had passed since that awful day, and she didn't want anything to ruin the tentative return to the status quo they'd achieved since then.

Such as sharing a bed. Which they hadn't done since before the Magnussen case.

Oh, as much as she tried to tell herself it wouldn't be different now, she knew it would, at least for her. She'd laid bare her soul during that phone call, and Sherlock had been forced to confront his own, deeply repressed feelings for her, and that wasn't exactly the best way for such revelations to come about. So they'd talked and agreed that it was best to just pretend it had never happened - or at least, to pretend that both declarations had been of the 'very close friends who would do anything for one another' sort, rather than of the 'I want to marry you and have your children sort'.

This vacation was going to ruin that, she just knew it. She wished she'd just told Sherlock that no, he didn't have to take her to Germany to the site of the 1936 Winter Olympics as a thank you and apology for the upheaval Eurus had brought into her life. How he'd known it was someplace she'd always wanted to visit she wasn't entirely sure, but he was Sherlock Holmes. He had his ways.

While she'd been brooding over the situation and staring fixedly at the mountains in the distance, Sherlock had apparently been busy; when she turned around, both suitcases were placed on the bench provided, and he was hanging up his suit jacket next to his Belstaff. She realized she was still wearing her own coat and wandered over to the closet to take care of it.

"You do know I deliberately left off making the reservations, right?"

She whipped her head around to stare at him, her coat dangling from one arm. "What? Why?"

Sherlock looked a bit uncomfortable, shifting his eyes to the side before finally meeting her gaze. "Because I wanted an excuse to sleep in a bed with you again. And I wanted to do it somewhere far away from London and bad memories and well-meaning friends who might interrupt us."

"Well, you hardly ever sleep and I can get by on just a few hours at a time if I have to," Molly reminded him, once she'd got over her being-flustered buffering (and decided not to yell at him for his confession). He reached for her coat and she let him hang it up. "So I don't know why it would be a big deal if someone interrup…mph!"

She was silenced by his lips on hers, her eyes going wide and and then snapping shut as he pulled her close. When the kiss ended - a glorious, perfect first kiss, better than she'd ever imagined - he murmured against her ear, "I would like to do more than just sleep next to you, Molly, tonight and for the rest of our lives, if you'll have me."

"Wh-why?" she breathed as he stroked her back with one hand, holding her loosely with the other on her waist.

"Because the status quo sucks," he said frankly. "To hell with what we agreed to, and to hell with waiting until my emotions are sorted out better, thank you John 'Busybody' Watson," he added, clearly reliving - and discarding - advice his best friend must have given him. "I love you Molly, and you love me. You want to be with me, I want to be with you - and I really want to shag you into that featherbed right now, if you don't mind."

"O-okay," she managed to squeak out, dazed and pleased and almost too overcome for words.

She found her voice quickly, however, once they were both naked and Sherlock was lying on top of her.

They made love with a fury and passion unmatched by the efforts of any partner Molly had ever shared herself with before. She could hardly believe it when she orgasmed not once but twice, followed swiftly by Sherlock's release. After a brief period of recovery they made love again, then a third time, as if trying to make up for all the years they'd wasted as mere colleagues and eventual friends.

When they finally exhausted their overabundance of passion for one another, the room had gone dark and they were both starving. Room-service was ordered, delivered, and devoured…and then Molly discovered that no, passion hadn't been exhausted, it had only been temporarily appeased.

And that was something she could live with - tonight, during the week's vacation, and for the rest of their lives.


	3. Wide Awake and Dreaming

_no-tragedy on tumblr requested a drabble about insomnia, and of COURSE it turned into a semi-angsty post-TFP story. Rated a light T. Also a warm thank you to everyone for reviewing this new collection of mine!_

* * *

Sleeping was definitely off the menu for the rest of the night. The two hours she'd spent tossing and turning had made THAT fact more than abundantly clear. With a sigh, Molly sat up, clicked on her bedside light...and screeched.

"Sherlock!" she gasped out once she recognized the figure standing in her bedroom doorway. "What the hell-!"

"Sorry," he said, not moving any closer. Just standing there, swaying a bit on his feet.

As she got a good look at him, Molly's angry protests died in her throat. Throwing off the covers, she swung her legs over the side and hurried to him. "What happened? Does this have something to do with the 'experiment' you called me about earlier?"

He just nodded, and she could see the lines of exhaustion on his face. "It's a long story," he said, his voice hoarse, as if he'd been doing a lot of talking - or shouting. "But I wanted to explain right away. To try and...fix things. If I can." He lifted a hand in a vague gesture, and Molly gasped at the sight of his bruised and swollen fingers.

"Sherlock! What the hell happened?" She helped him out of his coat and guided him to her bed, sitting him on the side and kneeling down to help him off with his shoes. He shrugged out of his suit jacket and let it fall onto the bed; Molly picked it up and laid it across the back of her vanity chair, then urged him to lie down. She covered him with the duvet, then climbed into bed next to him.

They'd done this dozens of times, ever since his faked death, but even that traumatic event felt like nothing compared to the story he proceeded to tell her. A secret sister, altered memories, a childhood tragedy, mind control like something out of a James Bond movie...and the usual murder, mayhem and mania that went along with so many of his cases.

She listened quietly to the whole story, as Sherlock's voice became hoarser and hoarser, only getting up once to bring him a glass of water, which he gulped down thirstily. When he finished she tried to think of something to say, something to show here horror, her compassion, her love, but all she could manage was, "It really does sound exactly like the sort of thing I would buy for myself, that coffin. Too bad you smashed it; might have saved myself a few thousand pounds."

He stared at her; she bit her lip and cursed her awkward, horrible sense of humor...and then grinned as he started laughing. He laughed as if it were the funniest joke he'd ever heard, and when he finally wound down, wiping the tears from his eyes, he pulled her close and kissed her. On the lips. "I meant it, you know. I didn't know I meant it until you made me say it, but I did mean it. I love you."

"I meant it too," she replied, all traces of humor gone as she met his gaze. "It's true, it's always been true. I love you. I guess the only question is, where do we go from here?"

"To sleep, I hope," he replied with a jaw-cracking yawn. He snuggled her closer, his head on her chest, and she wrapped her arms around him. "And then to the nearest registry. I'm sure Mycroft can get a license rushed through for us."

"You want to get married? Right away?" Molly was somewhat taken aback, but it didn't stop her fingers carding through his tangled curls. "Isn't that rushing things? Don't you want to take your time, really process your emotions, make sure…"

"Molly," he cut her off impatiently, lifting his head just enough to give her a slight scowl, "I've never been more sure of anything in my life. And it's hardly rushing things when we've known each other for seven years, and been in love with each other just about that long. And yes, I have been, it wasn't just you all this time. You're just the one that was strong enough to admit it. Now," he added, nestling his head beneath her chin, "I really am exhausted. I promise we can talk about in the morning, if I have any voice left. Can that be enough for now?"

"Of course," she replied, bending down to press a soft kiss to his forehead. "Good-night, Sherlock." She hesitated only a moment before adding softly, "I love you."

"Love you too," he mumbled, and then his breathing evened out, the tension in his body eased, and she knew he was asleep.

Insomnia, however, had settled in for a long stay with her, but at least now she had a lot to think about during her sleepless night...and the man she loved in her arms.

All in all, she concluded, she'd had worse days.


	4. Speakeasy

_The third of four prompt fills promised to new followers of geekyangie on tumblr. This one is for sherlockholmesismytype. The prompt was Sherlock undercover as a bartender at a 1920s Speakeasy, where Molly comes in for a drink to get her mind off colleagues who are intimidated by her being a woman. Rated a light T._

* * *

Why, Molly thought morosely as she plunked herself onto a barstool, had she ever believed it would be easier to take up her chosen profession in the United States? Men were men no matter what country they came from, and she was sick of how intimidated they were by her being a female, much less a doctor. The fact that she worked in the morgue and did autopsies didn't help; she couldn't begin to count the number of 'helpful' suggestions that she might be better off delivering babies or dealing with 'women's problems' she'd been subjected to in the past six months. She was glad her friend Meena had recommended this place to her just the other day; Molly was more than desperate for a nice cold gin and tonic to wash away the taste of male testosterone clogging her (figurative) senses.

"I should have asked that idiot Moran if he'd rather I told him to turn his head and cough," she muttered to herself, fussing with her hat as she waited for the bartender to show up and take her order.

The sound of choked off laughter brought her out of her reverie, and she looked up to see the single most gorgeous man she'd ever laid eyes on standing in front of her, still chuckling. At her highly inappropriate words. How perfectly mortifying.

She was still trying to work out a way to explain herself when she realized he was asking her a question. "What's your poison?" he repeated patiently as she just gawped at him like an idiot.

It finally clicked that he was the bartender. The one she'd been waiting for. "All my life," she breathed out, then blushed bright red as she realized what she'd done. "Uh, a gin and tonic, please, been gasping for a drink...um, all my life," she added in a lame attempt to explain her earlier words.

The slow grin he gave her told her she wasn't fooling him in the least, and she blushed even redder under his knowing gaze. As soon as he served her drink she mumbled her thanks, handed over the necessary coinage, and tried to make herself invisible as she sipped at the refreshing beverage.

"You're not from around here," she heard someone say, and looked up as soon as she realized it was the bartender speaking, and not one of the men seated on either side of her.

Coming from one of them she'd have rolled her eyes and given them the cold shoulder; too many American men seemed to think that an Englishwoman must be easy, although Heaven knew why. It was a good thing she knew how to handle that sort of unwanted attention.

Unfortunately what she was less adept at handling was attention of the _wanted_ kind. Especially when it came from a man who ticked all her favorite boxes: tall, dark curly hair, gorgeous blue (green?) eyes, sharp cheekbones, and... _British_?

She really was in bad shape, if it was taking her brain this long to catch up with the fact that his accent screamed Posh Londoner to her ears. "Um, no, I'm not," she replied, wishing that her cheeks would cool down just a tiny bit. "I'm from…"

"Northamptonshire," he said promptly. "Born there, studied in London, moved here for the so-called better opportunities available to a female doctor. Discovered that was only a myth, and are more than ready to move back home at the first opportunity, where at least your boorish male co-workers will come from familiar backgrounds and might more easily be set back on their heels."

"Uh...how did you know all that?" Molly asked, bewildered and more than a little suspicious. "Did Meena put you up to this?" She craned her head around, trying to spy her friend in the crowd of people, to no avail.

"Don't know any 'Meena'," he replied with a shrug as she turned her questioning gaze back on him.

"Then how…"

"I deduced it," he replied, rather smugly. Before she could ask what exactly that meant, he went on: "As a fellow countryman with a very practiced ear, your current accent and its origins were clear to me. And your profession and your distaste for your colleagues were both made blindingly obvious by your disparaging remark as you seated yourself at the bar...and of course, there's this." Brashly, he reached forward and flipped a finger under her coat collar, exposing the black band of her stethoscope hung round her neck. Drat, she'd forgotten to remove it before leaving work again.

"But how did you know I was thinking about moving back to England?" she asked, fascinated in spite of herself - and willing to forgive him the overly familiar gesture. She'd honestly expected him to explain that he was an undercover policeman or, that yes, Meena had told him about her - but neither answer would explain how he'd known she was thinking about chucking it all and returning home.

Before he could answer, the sounds of shouting and swearing erupted behind them. Molly whipped her head around to see what was going on, her mouth opening in a shocked 'O' as she saw a veritable sea of uniformed policemen streaming into the room. "Bollocks," she heard the bartender mutter, as if this were some minor inconvenience rather than a full-on raid.

As the shrill sound of police whistles added to the noise, Molly started to rise from her feet, just as eager to avoid arrest as the thronging masses milling about the speakeasy. However she was stopped by a pair of hands grasping her upper arms, and let out a startled screech as she felt herself being hauled bodily over the top of the bar. She was pulled close to a warm male body, and looked up to see that the bartender was the one now holding her semi-captive while chaos ruled over the rest of the room. "Shh, it's fine, I'm the one who summoned them," he murmured as he pressed her closer. "Although their timing could use a bit of work."

"Wh-what? Why?" she stammered out, utterly confused - and wishing she'd had time to finish her drink before all hell broke loose.

"Because the owners are using the speakeasy as a front for an international drug-running ring," he replied, spinning them both around so that she was pressed between his body and the bar-back. Before she could protest his high-handed treatment of her, the sound of something whizzing by her ear and smashing into the mirror behind them caused her to duck her head against his chest. "By the way, the name's Sherlock Holmes."

"Molly Hooper," she mumbled into his collar, feeling more than a little dazed at how the night was shaping up. She peeked up at him. "Or did you already know that, too?"

"Nope," he replied, popping the p obnoxiously and at the same time tugging her down so they were both crouching on the floor. His timing was impeccable; more bottles and glasses were slung their way, showering them with glass. He held her close, her forehead on his clavicle and his hands over her head, shielding her from the worst of the debris.

She kept her eyes tightly shut but couldn't resist continuing to pepper him with questions while the police and patrons shouted and fought on the other side of the bar. "So you're a policeman after all?" she asked. "How long have you been in Chicago? Why did you move here? Surely someone as clever as you has no end of opportunities in London for…"

The fact that he silenced her wasn't surprising, considering the circumstances - but the fact that he did so with a rather searing kiss came as something of a shock. A welcome shock, to be sure, but still, a shock.

"Hey, Holmes! You back there?"

Gradually Molly realized that the background noises had lowered to a dull rumble peppered by the occasional curse. Blushing furiously, she allowed Sherlock to help her back to her feet, fearing that her rumpled appearance and undoubtedly dazed expression would give away the fact that the pair of them had been snogging like a couple of adolescents.

Why had he kissed her? Most likely to distract her, of course. Or he was simply taking advantage of the situation, and her, the way any man would under the circumstances. She couldn't bring herself to believe it could be anything more than that - certainly he hadn't done it because he found her attractive!

"Stop that," he said crossly. She couldn't help but notice that he kept his arm around her waist as they turned to face whoever had called out to him. A policeman, of course, one who was eyeing them both askance.

"I'm not doing anything!" she protested, trying to pull away from him.

"You're thinking too loudly. I'm not taking advantage of you and I didn't kiss you just to keep you quiet, I did it because yes, I do find you attractive and more than mildly interesting," he retorted, tightening his grip on her waist.

"If this is a bad time," the policeman interjected dryly, "we could always come back, do it all over again. You know, at your convenience."

Sherlock waved his free hand in an irritable gesture. "Don't be an idiot, Gregson. You'll find the evidence you need down here." He stamped his foot, and Molly heard the hollow sound of what she presumed to be a trapdoor beneath their feet. She allowed Sherlock to shuffle them both off to the side as Gregson - a lieutenant, she believed, if she was reading his rank insignia correctly - ordered a group of other policemen to go around the bar.

Sherlock brought Molly down to the far end of the bar, lifted the bar flap, and nudged her through before lowering it back into place. Thinking that was her sign to leave she pasted on a smile and opened her mouth to thank him for protecting her during the raid, but he stopped her with one raised hand. With the other he pointed at the nearest bar stool. "I still owe you a drink, Doctor Hooper. And if you'll allow me, I'd like to escort you back to your flat."

Molly hesitated for the briefest of seconds before nodding and sliding onto the seat. Her smile this time was sincere. "Yes, that would be lovely. And please, do call me Molly."

"Molly," he repeated obligingly. As he handed her her drink, he added, "Perhaps on the way we can continue our discussion of why it would be an excellent idea for you to return to England sooner rather than later. By the end of the week would be best, actually."

Molly's brow knit in confusion. "Why by the end of the week?"

He flashed her a grin that would have turned her knees to butter had she still been standing. "Because that's when I'm due to fly back, and I would enjoy your company on the flight. Now, let me tell you about an acquaintance of mine in London by the name of Mike Stamford. Last time I spoke to him he mentioned a shortage of doctors at St. Bartholomew's Hospital…"


	5. Mine

_A/N: This isn't quiiite a prompt, but it was written at the instigation of broomclosetkink so I've decided to post it here. Rated M, total PWP._

* * *

Sherlock prowled across the room, his gaze hot and intense.

Molly backed up until she bumped against the wall, unable to tear her eyes away. "Sherlock," she whispered, reaching out with one hand as if to ward him off.

"Molly," he growled as he came within reach, grasping her by the wrist and yanking her against his hard, lean form.

She was helpless in his grasp, tilting her head back as he leaned down and took her mouth in a bruising, possessive kiss.

She moaned as his lips descended to the curve of her throat, his free hand caressing her through the thin fabric of her dressing-gown.

When he tugged on the tie, she knew she should stop him, stop this, but all she could think was how much she wanted him, how she'd longed for this moment since first laying eyes on him. Instead of pushing him away, she reached down and undid the fastenings to his bespoke trousers, gasping with pleasure as she felt the hot length of him in her hands.

"Tell me you want this," he purred into her ear, making no other moves except to release the hand he still held above her head. "Say it."

"I want this," Molly breathed, making sure to catch and hold his gaze. "Please, Sherlock. Now."

That was all he needed to hear; within seconds, his trousers were down around his thighs and that lovely thick cock she'd been stroking was between her legs. He lifted her up, anchoring her against the wall with his hands on her bum, and she felt the blunt head of his cock against her pussy, demanding entry.

"You're mine, Molly Hooper," Sherlock grunted as he pushed his way into her welcoming heat. "Say it."

"I'm yours," she whimpered, hands scrabbling for purchase on his shoulders. "All yours. Only yours."

"Yesss," he growled as he began thrusting in earnest. "Mine. All mine. Only mine." Then, mouth against her ear, he added in an intense murmur, "Just as I am yours."

She came hard at those words, a wordless cry of pure ecstasy on her lips as she clenched around his shaft.

Sherlock came a few minutes later, his hot seed pulsing into her body, his breath as series of short, panting gasps, eyes clenched tight as he rode out his pleasure.

Molly unwound herself from his sweat-slicked form, her knees nearly buckling as she tried to stand. Sherlock gathered her close and eased them both down to the floor. "Mine," he whispered as he held her close. "All mine. Only mine."

"And I'm yours," Molly replied, nestled against him, happier - and far more sated - than she'd ever been in her life.


	6. Born To Run

_mychakk said: Hi! Is there a story with Sherlock and Molly on the run for such a long period that she gets pregnant and they deal with the pregnancy on the run and Sherlock's the only one who can deliver the baby because they cannot trust anyone? So I wrote this. Rated T(ish) for some baby birthin' talk. Enjoy!_

* * *

"OK, Molly, just breathe, just…do the panting thing, we're almost there."

From the backseat of the stolen car, Molly groaned. "Sherlock, I can't…it's not…PULL OVER!" she suddenly screamed.

The car swerved to the side of the road, bumping up onto the grass as Sherlock obeyed her urgent command. This was all his fault; he'd let her convince him she would be fine, that they'd make it to Birmingham in plenty of time. What he should have been doing was listening to her pain, not her words. And now their child, a child conceived whilst on the run from Moriarty's vengeful lieutenant Sebastian Moran, was going to be born in the backseat of a stolen 2017 Chevrolet Equinox on the side of the road in the middle of Nowhere, Alabama.

Yep, definitely all his fault. And Molly was happy to tell him that as he delivered their son - healthy, good damn lungs at the very least - and wrapped him tenderly in the one clean tee shirt he had left.

"He's beautiful," Molly whispered, tears in her eyes as Sherlock handed him to her. The umbilical cord would have to wait to be cut after he'd got them safely to the hospital, only about a half-hour's drive ahead, but neither new parent cared about details like that. Only about the fact that their son - not a daughter, as Sherlock had insisted - was a healthy red-faced squalling infant in spite of his unorthodox birthing place.

William Hamish Hooper-Holmes, born on the run, American son of two staunch Brits, was also the only witness six months later when his parents managed to capture Moran and finally return to their interrupted lives in London.

For the record, he was not impressed.


	7. En Español

_anonymous asked: For the alphabet thing: Ñ ok I'm kidding. M._

 _Wellll…I was reblogging that post about a Sherlolly alphabet of fics as a signal boost but since you asked so nicely… (Rated K. Also rated F for unrestrained and unapologetic fluff!)_

* * *

" _Ñoñería_ ," Sherlock pronounced. Flawlessly, of course. The git.

"It's not silliness," Molly insisted. "Or idiocy. It's Art." She made damn sure that he could hear the capital 'A' in her response as she kept her gaze firmly on the statue.

"Then why did artist call it that?" Sherlock asked innocently as he thrust the museum brochure under her nose.

Molly sighed. When would she learn not to try to one-up her boyfriend? "Fine," she muttered disconsolately. " _Ñoñería_ it is." Her pronunciation was horrible as always.

She was startled as she felt herself suddenly engulfed in a hug; Sherlock never indulged in public displays of affection, certainly not while on a case! "Sorry, Molly," he murmured in her ear as he pressed a soft kiss to her cheek. "I wasn't trying to show you up, honestly. I'm still new to this 'teasing my girlfriend' thing. _Perdóname_?"

"Always," she said with a smile, reaching up to caress his cheek.

" _Te amo_ ," he whispered, and any residual resentment melted clean away.


	8. Only When I'm Sleeping

_A/N: This is the first of several tumblr prompts, written for writingwife83 and rated K+. Thank you as always for all your kind reviews!_

* * *

"Why do you only kiss me when I'm sleeping?"

Molly froze as Sherlock's sleepy voice pierced the darkness of her bedroom. He'd collapsed there after explaining everything about that awful, awful phone call - his secret sister, the coffin, the horrifying death of his childhood friend, John's near brush with death…everything. She'd thought he'd finally fallen asleep, although she wasn't sure she'd ever sleep again. There was too much to process, and not just the words they'd exchanged over the telephone.

Words he'd admitted he'd meant, less than an hour ago. She'd assured him she believed him, urged him to sleep and then slipped out of bed once his breathing evened out.

"I just - it was just an impulse," she lied as she stood at the bedside, her back to him. "You were hurting, you've been through so much today and I just…"

"Not just tonight," he interrupted her. She heard the rustle of bedclothes and knew he was sitting up. "You did the same thing the first time I slept here, before heading out to destroy Moriarty's criminal empire. And each time I've slept over since my return. But never when I'm awake. Why?"

With a sigh of capitulation, knowing he would refuse to let it go, she sat on the side of the bed. She felt him move, knew before he settled next to her that that was where he was going to end up. What she didn't anticipate, however, was the arm he carefully draped around her shoulder, or the way he reached for her hands with his bandaged fingers, carefully twining them together. "After what we shared tonight, Molly, I'd think of all times you'd be willing to kiss me while I was awake."

"Sherlock, when it comes to you, I never make assumptions," she whispered, feeling his thumb stroke her wrist. "Just because you tell someone you love them, that doesn't mean they want to be with you, or to take things further. Besides, you're still processing things, I know you are; you may be a brilliant, beautiful man but you're still human."

"You think I'm beautiful?"

She cringed a bit at the question, then realized the way he asked it wasn't puzzled, but more…wondering. "Yes," she replied. "I do. Mind, body and soul."

He was silent for a long moment before speaking again, his voice very low and hesitant. "I feel…the same way about you, Molly Hooper."

Her breath caught, hitching on a potential sob, one she'd not allow to escape her throat if it lodged there forever and choked her. Instead of speaking, she freed her hands from his gentle grip, turned so she was on her knees, and very carefully pulled him to her for a hug.

All the tension in her body - and his - eased at that movement. He hugged her back, the two of them just breathing together before he pulled his head back just enough to catch her gaze in the ambient light from the window. "You don't need to make assumptions, Molly. No matter how much processing I might need to do regarding the day's revelations, one thing I can guarantee: you can kiss me when I'm awake - and I'll always, always be willing to kiss you back."

Blinking away sudden, ridiculous tears, Molly replied, "O-okay."

Then she moved closer, closer, until there was only the smallest of breaths between them…and kissed him.

And as he kissed her back, contentment settled where turmoil had once reigned.


	9. Irreplaceable

_Prompt fill for elennemigo on tumblr: "Do you really think I could ever replace you?"_

 _A TRF AU for the "I don't count" scene, rated K+. Thank you as always for reading, favoriting and following and especially reviewing!_

* * *

"You see me."

"I don't count," Molly replied, dismissing her own importance to him with three simple words - three sharp pricks to his supposedly non-existent heart. "What I'm trying to say is that if there's anything I can do, anything you need, anything at all, you can have me." She paused, flustered. "No, I just mean… I mean… If there's anything you need. It's fine."

"B-but what could I need from you?" He was truly perplexed; how could he possibly need more from her when she already gave him everything, often before asking?

Molly shrugged. "Nothing. I don't know. But you could probably say thank you, actually."

"Thank you," he half-asked, but it seemed to be good enough for Molly.

"I'm just going to go and get some crisps. Do you want anything?" She seemed to think better of her offer. "It's okay. I know you don't."

"Well, actually, maybe I'll…"

Molly brushed him off. "I know you don't."

As she turned to leave, however, Sherlock realized he didn't want her to go, didn't want to leave things like this. Not if Moriarty's plan was going to rip their lives apart. "Do you really think I could ever replace you?"

Molly paused on her way out the door, turning to face him with an almost frightened look on her face. "Sherlock, please, it's - it's all right, you don't have to say something like that. I mean, yes, of course I know we work well together, at least I think we do, but we both know I'm not, I'm not exactly John Watson to you and that's fine, I know I don't really count…"

While she was babbling he stood up, crossed the room, and came to a stop directly in front of her. She fell silent when he rested his hands on her shoulders. "You're wrong, you know," he said, his voice a low rumble. "You _do_ count, and I've always trusted you. And," he added before she could do more than blink and open her mouth in an 'O' of surprise, "the reason I don't need anything from you is because you've already given me everything." He smiled softly, reached up to trace the line of her jaw with his index finger. "I just hope you'll let me do the same for you."

He bent down to kiss her, waiting until she slid her hands up his chest before pressing his lips softly to hers. There was a storm coming, but he knew he could weather it with the irreplaceable Molly Hooper by his side.


	10. Stress Kills

_everchanging101 on tumblr requested #77: "I can't stand seeing you like this!"_

 _I went for the obvious with this one. Set during The Lying Detective, cue the angst. All statistics are entirely made up for maximum effectiveness so please don't feel the need to correct me. Rated T for mentions of drug use._

* * *

"I can't stand seeing you like this!"

Molly turned her head and folded her arms tightly across her chest.

Sherlock, who had shucked his coat and sprawled across the gurney as soon as the ambulance doors were shut, blinked rapidly and smirked. "Then sit down," he said, waving toward the padded bench on the opposite side of the narrow space.

She tightened her fisted hands, fighting the urge to slap the snarkiness out of him. Taking a calming breath - and then three more, each just about as effective as the first - she turned around, lowering her hands to her sides. "Fine," she said through clenched teeth. "Let's get this, whatever-it-is over with."

She was wrestling with a pair of nitrile gloves when Sherlock's hand on her wrist stopped her. She met his gaze, saw what looked like real concern in his eyes. "Molly, you really need to stop worrying so much. Stress accounts for more deaths every year than drug use, did you know that? And I know what I'm doing, I promise."

She pulled her hand away, shaking her head sadly. "That's what every drug abuser tells themselves, Sherlock. They all think they know what they're doing, that they're in control, when it's the furthest thing from the truth." She didn't bother hiding the sorrow in her own voice as she spoke. "Sherlock, I don't even need to examine you to know that you're in bad shape. Whatever it is you think you're doing, you're not going to survive it if you keep on as you are."

"Just a little longer," he said, the words sounding very much like a promise - but not one that Molly could find it in herself to hold him to. "This will all be over very soon. You have my word."

She shook her head but couldn't stop the tiny flame of hope from flaring any more than she could stop loving the beautiful, heartbreaking man lying across from her.

"Right, then," was all she said, finally managing to get the glove on her hand. "In the meantime, let's get this over with."


	11. Wokingham

_Anonymous asked: Hi! Are you still taking prompts? If so #51 "I'm your husband it's my job." seems cool._

 _Rated K, super fluffy HS reunion fic with completely unnecessary but very fun Cabin Pressure references. Enjoy!_

* * *

"Stop fretting."

"I'm your husband, it's my job."

Molly wrinkled her nose and gave Sherlock a surreptitious swat on the arm. "You're my fake husband, and this is just a stupid reunion. I should have said no but Simone is just so.." She heaved an exasperated sigh that set her newly-cut fringe to fluttering. "She just steamrollers over me with her voice and her moustache."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Her moustache?" he echoed.

Molly nodded, fighting the urge to giggle in spite of her discomfort. "Yeah, she bleaches it but you can still see it in the right light. Surprised you missed it," she added with a smirk.

"I didn't," Sherlock replied, slipping an arm around her waist. "I just didn't think you did. Now," he added before Molly could do more than take a breath, "let's go show off what a fantastic catch you made, have some atrocious food and worse punch, maybe dance unnecessarily close to one another for a few slow dances, and after…"

"And after go back to our usual lives," Molly finished for him.

"And after," he corrected her with a scowl, "work on me becoming your real husband sometime soon."

Molly's stunned expression remained only as long as it took him to kiss her.


	12. In The Mood

_violetjersey asked: Are you still accepting Drabble Meme prompts? If so, can you pls do #93... thank you! "You didn't just wake me up at 2 am because you were 'in the mood'."_

 _This is rated a solid T for mentions of a, um, solid part of Sherlock's anatomy. Enjoy!_

* * *

The music draws her out of sleep, pulling her from her bed and compelling her to the sitting room. He's standing in front of the stereo system, feet tapping, fingers leading an invisible big band as Glenn Miller's vibrant music blares out from the speakers.

He says nothing as she approaches, just smiles and leans down for a kiss as she wraps her arms around his waist. "Welcome home," she murmurs when the kiss ends. "Case finished?" She tries not to yawn and fails and pokes him in the ribs when he chuckles knowingly.

"Yup," he replies. "John home safe and sound, Rosie looked in on, nanny looked in on - that woman snores like the proverbial freight train, don't know how either of them can sleep through it but she's an excellent caretaker so I suppose that one flaw can be overl…"

Molly silences him with another kiss, then tilts her head back to look up at him in the ambient light from the windows. "You came here and cranked up the music just loud enough to wake me," she says, deducing him as only she can, a wicked smile curling her lips. "You've already showered and changed into your pyjamas, you've put on a dab of cologne…And the music you chose?" Her grin widens as she slides her hands down his back until they reach the perfect globes of his arse. "You didn't just wake me up at 2 am because you were 'in the mood', did you?"

He groans at the pun, then groans quite a different kind of groan as she presses her body closely against his. She can feel the direct evidence of his desire against her hip, and the grin on her lips becomes soft, seductive. He joins her when she begins swaying her body in time to the music, dancing her backwards in the dark with confidence, humming low accompaniment in her ear until they reach her bedroom.

It's almost always like this when he returns from a case that hasn't exhausted all his resources: full of energy, eager to share that energy with her, diffuse it between them until they're both spent and sleepy and fully sated. For that alone, Molly thinks before his attentions steal her ability to do so, being woken in the middle of the night is well, well worth it.

Even if she _does_ have to get up at six a.m. for work.


	13. No Big Loss

_writingwife-83 asked: Hey there! How about drabble prompt #122? "I'm worried about losing my job!" ;D_

 _This one went in a completely different direction than I had planned…whoops! More Post TFP angst with a dash of the originally intended humor. Rated K+. Thanks for reading!_

* * *

"But Molly," Sherlocked whined, "you don't understand! I'm worried about losing my job! I'm stressed!"

"You're stressed? I'm dying!" Molly said tartly, then took another sip of her mai-tai. "You're the one who decided to tag along on my holiday! It's not my fault if you're worried that Scotland Yard will suddenly figure out how to get along without you!"

"I did not 'tag along'," he said, sitting up straight on the lounge chair next to hers and glaring at her over the top of his (designer) sunglasses. "I offered to accompany you in case of…things." As she opened her mouth to ask what 'things' he was referring to, he hurriedly added, "And don't think I didn't catch what you did there, with the stressed and the dying. I may have been off my tits but I still remember our little post-ambulance chat."

"Then why," Molly asked through gritted teeth, "did you so conveniently forget that I was going on this vacation to get away from 'things'?" She made sarcastic air quotes and turned away from him with a huff, trying once again not to be distracted by his bare chest and low-slung cargo shorts. "If you'd stayed in London, you wouldn't have to worry about 'losing your job' and I wouldn't have to worry about what else you seem to have forgotten!"

Damn, she hadn't meant to say that, to bring up That Conversation or the words they'd both exchanged under duress. Even though Sherlock had admitted to meaning it, he'd also admitted he didn't know what to do with his feelings and so they'd agreed to just go on as they had been.

Molly, however, being unable to compartmentalize as efficiently as Sherlock seemed to manage, had decided on this week-long holiday to the Canary Islands as a way to distance herself from both London and Sherlock, to give herself a chance to really process what that forced confession meant…but of course the bloody, stupid, selfish prick couldn't leave well enough alone.

She started to rise, mumbling some excuse about needing the loo, but the feel of his hands on her shoulders startled her into not only retaking her seat (with a bit of an awkward thump) but also into turning to face him again.

His expression was solemn, his eyes now uncovered by the sunglasses staring directly into hers. "I'm sorry. I have got to get out of this habit I have of saying such terrible things to you. I did invite myself along on this hoiday and it wasn't only because I was worried something might happen to you." He looked away, took a breath, squinted at the ocean, then turned back to her. "I tagged along because I couldn't bear the thought of you leaving without me. And all because I've been too much of a coward to tell you the truth."

Molly's heart was thumping painfully in her chest. "What truth?" she asked, barely able to force the words out. Was this his way of saying he couldn't see any kind of a future for them besides friendship? Because if it was, well, she could live with that…but she would need a much longer holiday - alone - first.

"I love you. I want to try to be more than friends. If that's something you still want with me."

The words didn't register at first, braced as Molly had been for a 'letting you down gently' speech. When they did, she could barely contain her joy; it erupted from her very pores, stretching her lips into a brilliant smile and lighting her eyes as if they contained stars of their very own. "You do?" she asked, turning her body she could fully face him.

Sherlock was half-kneeling on the hot sand between their loungers. "I do," he affirmed. "Even though I know I'll be rubbish at it and eventually you'll get sick of me and toss me over for some idiot who remembers anniversaries and Valentine's Day and…"

Molly laid her hand very gently across his mouth; he got the idea and stopped talking. Still smiling, she pulled her hand away. "We'll both make mistakes and get on each other's nerves and fight and shout and all that," she replied. "All the usual things people in love go through. But we'll sort it all out in the end. But right now I'd really like to kiss you, Sherlock Holmes, if you think Scotland Yard can still work with a consulting detective even if he's in a romantic relationship?"

His lips curved in a wicked grin. "I think so," he agreed, pulling her into his arms. "And if they can't? No big loss." Then they were too busy snogging to worry about anything beyond this one, perfect moment.


	14. Favorite Treat

_Ditsypersephone_ _said: I've been actually thinking of writing a drabble about cheap fast food apple pie because that's the extent of celebrating I am doing today...but if you, perhaps, could come up with something re. that (shamelessly acting like I'm not shamelessly asking you to drabble this specific prompt hahahaha)...then I wouldn't have to do all the work…_

 _Me: Happy belated birthday (I got part of it written on time at least) and I hope this is something close to what you had in mind! Rated K+_

* * *

"Pocket pie savory, pocket pie sweet!" Molly warbled to the tune of _Lavender's Blue/Lavender's Green_ as she opened up the paper bag holding her inexpensive birhtday treat. She inhaled deeply, loving the scent of warm apples and cinnamon that met her nose, reclosed the bag, clutched it to her chest and sighed a sigh of utter contentment.

"Really, Molly? Cheap pocket pies as your birthday treat? When there's a perfectly good pastry shop not three blocks from your overpriced flat?"

"Piss off, Sherlock," Molly said amiably, fingers tightening on the bag even as she smiled at him over her shoulder. She should have known he'd track her down as she made her way home through the park.

"Don't worry, I won't take your precious crap food away from you, even though it really does belong in the bin."

"You're one to talk," she scoffed as he fell into step beside her. "You can pretend to be some hoity-toity culinary snob to other people, Sherlock Holmes, but I know your taste in junk food and it's hardly _haute cuisine_. 'Specially chips - the greasier, the better, and don't spare the vinegar!" She dropped her voice in a passable - to her own ears, at least - imitation of the man walking next to her.

"I suppose you're entitled to the treat of your choice on your birthday," he conceded, wrapping his arm around her shoulders and pulling her close to his side. She didn't resist as he adroitly moved the two of them off the path and into a convenient little copse of trees whose leaves were just beginning to turn red.

"Of course," he breathed as he pressed her back against the trunk of a convenient elm, "I'd prefer it if I were your treat of choice."

She pulled the paper bag out from between them, holding it tightly in one hand while happily wrapping the other around the back of his neck. "Never fear," she assured him as she lifted herself up on tiptoes, "you'll always be in my top five list."

He pulled his head back and stared at her in mock outrage just before their lips could meet. "Top five? Really? Don't be ridiculous, we both know I'm at _least_ in the top two!"

She grinned. "Never could fool you," she agreed. "Now are you going to give me a nice semi-public birthday snog or not?"

"Mm, yep, I suppose I am." He pulled her close, brushing his lips across hers, teasing her a bit before delivering the promised snog. Molly sighed happily in his embrace, assuring him afterwards that yes, his kiss was the sweetest of treats that day…

…second only to the apple-filled pocket pie she'd already eaten.


	15. Seven

_rooneykmara asked:23 for the drabble challenge? Thank you!_

" _I didn't know we were keeping track."_ _Rated Hard T/M-ish for naughty conversation. Enjoy!_

* * *

"Seven."

Molly rolled over sleepily and peered over at Sherlock, who was lying on his back, head resting on his crossed arms. "Hmm?"

"Seven," he repeated, sounding rather smug as he turned to look at her. "I've given you seven orgasms in the past forty-eight hours."

She quirked an eyebrow. "I didn't know we were keeping track. What is it, a competition?"

As he leaned down to kiss her he replied, "Yes, and you are definitely winning."


	16. Wiles and Things

_Prompt from likingthistoomuch: "And that's how you ruin a life. Congratulations."_

 _Rated a hard (giggle) T, or a light M for implied naughtiness._

* * *

"And that's how you ruin a life. Congratulations."

Molly had the temerity to giggle - _giggle!_ \- at Sherlock's words. "Oh, please," she scoffed once the damned (adorable) giggling stopped. "Saying 'yes' to your parent's invitation to dinner and a musical Friday next is hardly life-ruining."

"It sets a precedent," Sherlock protested, but weakly. Mainly because Molly had clambered into his lap and was currently snuggled up against him, her head on his shoulder. "And don't think I don't know what you're doing," he added as she began kissing along his jawline.

"Hmm? And what's that?" she asked, her voice husky and her hands busy unfastening his dressing-gown.

"Distracting me with your womanly wiles," he mumbled in reply. Mumbled because her lips were now ghosting along his and her hands, finished with the untying-task were now fully occupied in touching…things. His things. His _thing_ , actually, although her fingers were skimming lower to other…things.

Molly giggled again (damn, still adorable, that giggle!). "Not distracting," she corrected him. "Rewarding. For being such a good sport about taking Mycroft's place while he's out of the country."

"Mmm-hmm," was all Sherlock could manage in reply; Molly's hand were really, really clever, and past experience told him that her mouth was just as clever and really, what was one night out with his parents compared to, well, this?

 _Nothing_ , he was his last coherent thought as Molly slid off his lap, giving him a wicked, wicked look as she landed on her knees between his legs. _Not a damned thing._


	17. Out of Contact

_stlgeekgirl on tumbtr asked: Drabble challenge, Sherlolly. Could I trouble you for # 109? ("Have you seen my contacts?")_

 _So here it is, rated K, slightly modified from the tumblr version. I hope you all enjoy it!_

* * *

"Have you seen my contacts?"

Molly gave Sherlock an odd look, and not just because he'd simply popped up next to her at the crowded farmer's market when she'd thought he was still asleep at the hotel. "Sherlock, you don't wear contacts."

He frowned without taking his eyes away from the massive group of people surrounding them. "How could I _wear_ my contacts? I'm _looking_ for them."

Molly had been involved in her fair share of odd conversations with Sherlock, but this one was right up there with the one involving mashed potatoes and the tensile strength of her sturdiest cotton bra. Shrugging both mentally and physically, she just decided to go along with it, casting her eyes groundward. "They'll be awfully hard to spot in this crowd - where did you lose them?"

"Right here," he replied gesturing outward with one hand while simultaneously raking frustrated fingers through his hair. "One minute they were right there, the next…gone."

"Got it," she replied, although she really didn't get it. At all. How could she have missed seeing all the paraphernalia that went along with owning contact lenses in the hotel bathroom? Or in his flat or hers, since they'd started dating? "And how did you lose them, exactly?" she asked.

"Like you said, the crowd," he replied, his feet shifting restlessly. She squeezed his thigh to remind him to stand still, lest he trample them underfoot. "Someone jostled me, I lost my balance and…Molly? What exactly are you doing?"

She'd crouched down to begin the search, and looked up at him with a confused frown that matched his own. "Looking for your contacts?"

He tugged at her arm, pulling her back up. "There's no point in looking for their tracks, Molly, this isn't an old American western. Remember, the crowd? Too many footprints and…"

The penny finally dropped. Molly felt her cheeks reddening in mortification as she said, "Ohhhh, your _contacts_ , not your _contacts_."

The look Sherlock gave her was decidedly odd, certainly one she'd never seen before. His brow crinkled as if in confusion (or, more likely, irritation); his head tilted to one side; his lips compressed into a thin line before opening and shutting a few times…and then he laughed.

Oh how he laughed. He laughed like a man who'd been told the funniest joke in the known universe. He bent over, he slapped his knees, he held his stomach, he wiped tears from his eyes - and he wrapped her into a warm hug before kissing the top of her head.

"Molly Hooper," he proclaimed as he released her, holding her at arm's length with a grin, "thank you. You have no idea how much I needed that."

Then he kissed her again - this time on the lips - and strode off, still chuckling to himself.

He never did tell her why he thought she might know who his missing contacts were.


	18. Never Dull

_anonymous asked: Hi there :) Big sherlolly fan and also of your fics. Here is a prompt for whenever you need one: Sherlock and Molly's child worrying about not be as special/smart/remarkable as his/her parents and being afraid of becoming "dull" in Sherlock's eyes_

 _A/N: This is an old old OLD prompt (like, 2016 old) that I just discovered. Sorry anon, hope you enjoy it even if it took forever! Rated K+, enjoy and thank you as always for your wonderful reviews!_

* * *

"Dad's a genius."

Molly looked over at Moira, her wonderful, beautiful, intelligent, friendly, amazing twelve-year-old daughter. "Yes, I suppose he is," she said, even though it hadn't actually been a question. "Just figuring that out now are you?" she quipped with a grin. "Better not let him know it took you this long, he'll be insulted!"

She knew she'd said he wrong thing by the way Moira's blue-green eyes clouded over, her expression darkening even as her body seemed to shrink in on itself. Molly hurried across the room, laying her hand on her daughter's where it clutched the arm of Sherlock's chair. "Luv, I'm sorry, that was just a joke, what's wrong?"

It distressed her to see her daughter unhappy under any circumstances, but to have caused that distress was like putting her heart in the jaws of a bone-cutter and squeezing hard. "Moira? What is it?"

"Dad and Uncle Mycroft are both proper geniuses, and you're super smart, yeah? I mean, you're at the top of your field. Even Uncle John is a doctor and and a published author and Rosie's never failed a test in her life and I just got a stupid 70% on my maths test!"

"Hey, it's all right," Molly said, smothing a calming (she hoped) hand over her daughters disheveled chocolate curls. "There's nothing wrong with that grade–"

"Yes there is!" Moira shrilled, jumping to her feet and pacing around the sitting room much like her father when he was in a strop. "Dad thinks ordinary people are dull, and what if this means I'm just ordinary? If he thinks I'm dull then he won't love me anymore. He'll pretend to, but I'll know he's just pretending, when he's really just disappointed he only has one kid and it's a dull, boring, ordinary girl."

There were tears in her eyes when she finally wound down, and she spun away from her mother, hands raised to her face and tension fairly radiating from her trembling form.

Molly made to rise from the sofa when a well-loved baritone voice rang through the sitting room. "Bollocks," Sherlock said firmly as he strode into the room, pausing only to give Molly a fond look before moving to stand behind Moira. "Who's been putting such ridiculous notions into your head? Why would you think I'd stop loving you for any reason at all? I know it's not your mother, and I certainly hope it wasn't anything I've ever done or said…and if it was," he added, gentling his voice, "I apologize."

Moira lifted her head from her hands and stared at him. "Dad, you don't ever apologize to anyone but Mum!"

He harrumphed and placed a hand on her shoulder. "First time for everything," he said gruffly. "Now get that idiotic notion out of your head once and for all, and replace it with this one." He peered at her intently. "I love you. I've loved you since before you were born and I'll love you for the rest of your life and beyond, if there is anything beyond which frankly I've never really…" He cleared his throat and darted a quick gaze at Molly - an apologetic gaze - before returning his full attention to his daughter. "I will never stop loving you, Moira Mary Hooper-Holmes. Ever."

"Even if it turns out I'm just dull and ordinary?" she half-whispered. But her eyes were hopeful.

"Even in the unlikely event that such a thing could happen, then yes, I would still love you. Even if you decided not to go to uni, to get a thousand tattoos, to run off and join a motorcycle gang in Thailand–even if you only make average grades in maths."

"Even if I told you I wanted to stop taking violin lessons and take piano instead?" she asked, biting her lower lip and fidgeting a bit.

Ah, the real reason she'd been so distraught, Molly realized with an internal sigh. Should have seen that coming when she started complaining about her lessons on a daily basis instead of a weekly basis.

Sherlock looked slightly taken aback, but rallied immediately, much to his credit. "Yes, even then. No matter what, I love you. Do you believe me? And before you answer," he interrupted himself to add, "do bear in mind the fact that I have never lied to you, unlike certain other members of this family."

Molly rolled her eyes. "Sherlock, telling children about Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy is NOT lying."

Moira grinned and allowed Sherlock to pull her into a comforting hug. "I believe you, Dad. And I'm sorry for getting all dramatic, Mum."

Molly smiled and stood up, moving to join them and put her arms around them. "Forgiven, forgotten," she replied. "Now. How about dinner at Angelo's since Dad's back from his case so early?"

And just like that, all was once again right in their world.


	19. What's In A Name

_anonymous asked: Hi, I really like you fics, I'm not sure if you are taking prompts, but this one's been on my mind lately. I know some one has done something similar, but I'd really like it if you could write something where Molly confronts Sherlock after he accidentally introduces her using his name. A true accident, not just an experiment to see how she would react. -Z_

 _Another super old prompt from 2016. Rated T for some naughty talk at the end._

* * *

"All right, Sherlock, enough is enough."

"Hmm?" He turned to face the irate specialty registrar. She rarely interrupted him when he was in the middle of anything, let alone a deduction designed to dazzle a new audience. Which DI Danforth certainly was.

"You just introduced me to DI Danforth - nice to meet you, by the way - using the wrong name."

Sherlock frowned and mentally flipped through the conversation they'd been having since his arrival in the morgue, and went into buffering mode as he realized that Molly was correct.

When he came back out several long seconds later, he blinked rapidly and offered, "Slip of the tongue?" as a more-question-than-answer.

Molly quirked an eyebrow and folded her arms across her chest. "Seriously?"

He nodded. "Um, actually, very seriously. A Freudian slip, as it were. Sorry about that. Won't happen again - unless, of course, you say yes."

Molly's eyebrows drew inward. "Say yes to what?"

"Marrying me," he replied impatiently; honestly, he expected better of her, she usually kept up much better than this.

"Ah, yeah, I think I'll just go get a cup of coffee and come back in a few," Danforth said with a grin. "Nice to meet you Doctor - er, what is your last name, if it's not Holmes, then?"

"Hooper," Sherlock and Molly both answered at the same time, gazes locked on one another.

"Right, Doctor Hooper then, nice to meet you, see you in a few minutes while you two sort whatever this is out." Then the door was shut and the DI was gone and Molly and Sherlock were still staring at one another.

"Marrying you," Molly repeated slowly, although there was a hint of a smile around the corners of her lips.

"Yes, marrying me, making a permanent name change," he replied, striding over to her and taking her hands. "It's been a whole sodding year since Sherrinford, Molly, don't you think you've made me wait long enough?"

"Hmm, I dunno, you made me wait a lot longer," Molly replied with a cheeky grin. When Sherlock made as if to let her go, she grabbed his face in her hands, pulled him down, and kissed him soundly. "Yes," she said, somewhat breathlessly as the kiss ended. "I'll marry you, you infuriating man."

As they kissed again, however, she added, "But I'm keeping my own name, so you'd better work on those slips of the tongue."

"There are a few other things I'd rather do with my tongue," he muttered, and proceded to demonstrate one of them, much to their mutual satisfaction.


	20. Prisoner of the Sun

_Have a vamplock AU courtesy of a tumblr prompt (the story title). Rated T. Thanks again to everyone for following, favoriting and of course reviewing!_

* * *

He's been in the cold, stone cell for months now, alone, just him and his thoughts and the sun creeping across the damp stone floor. It's nearly the Summer Solstice; on that day, the little sliver of shadow in which he huddles will vanish, and he'll be dead.

It's ingenious, he'll give his captors that much; mental torture to add to the physical discomforts he's suffering - hunger, thirst, burning heat by day and freezing cold by night. Even someone like himself, with enhanced senses and physical stamina, isn't immune to the effects of starvation and sleep deprivation…and, loath though he is to admit it, loneliness.

He spends a great deal of time in his Mind Palace, at least during the night when he doesn't need to pay close attention to the sun's approach. During the night he can pace, he can stretch out, he can make futile attempt after futile attempt to dislodge the silver-laced bars that make up the entire front of his prison from the stone walls to which they're so frustratingly attached. His hands burn, then heal, then burn again with every attempt he makes. And as time passes, the healing slows, falters, until finally he gives up, too weak from lack of sustenance for his body to completely heal itself.

He needs blood.

He bares his fangs at the night sky, watching as the stars begin to vanish, one by one, along with the darkness. Another day of torture, another day of wondering if it wouldn't be best to simply take matters into his own hands and roll out of the shadow and choose his own time of death. He's never allowed anyone to dictate his actions before, why start now?

He's distracted from his bleak thoughts by the sound of furtive movement on the ledge outside his prison. He raises his head, more weakly than alertly, but hopes he gives the illusion of being stronger than he actually is as he forces himself into a sitting position.

He waits, but the noises have stopped, although he can clearly hear the person just out of sight breathing heavily. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath; he can smell sweat and fear and the sweet, sweet scent of blood. His mouth waters and his fangs elongate into feeding mode and he curses silently. Is this his newest torture, to be allowed to smell and hear the possibility of salvation, only for it to be kept just out of reach?

When he's about given up, when he's ready to sink back into lethargy, the person moves again. His eyes snap open, and he sees her. Young, healthy, a strong heartbeat, the blood roaring in her veins. Abstractly he notes that her cinammon-colored hair is pinned up in neat braids, that her eyes are enormouse and brown, that her perfect white teeth nibble anxiously at her lower lip, that her clothes are worn but carefully mended, and that her figure is slender beneath the oversized tunic and skirts.

She stops far closer to the bars than is good for her; had he even half his depleted strength he could easily lunge out and pull her to him. The silver would burn, but her blood would sustain him long enough to escape.

It's a bitter fantasy, one he would never entertain were he back in his clan's territories, where there are more than enough willing blood-sharers for every vampire. "What are you doing here?" he rasps instead, shoving the starvation-fueled impulse away. "Come to taunt me before the Solstice?"

There's no answer, not from her throat at least; instead he hears the distinct sound of a lock being opened. "Your brother sent me," she says when he pulls himself to his feet and staggers toward the now-open gate. She speaks in low whispers and looks nervously over her shoulder every few seconds. "I've drugged the guards, and they shouldn't be missed until the morning, but you still need to hurry."

He takes a moment to study her, seeing the quiet resolve in her eyes as well as the slight tremble that betrays her fear - fear of being caught, certainly, but also fear of how he might react. If Mycroft sent her, then she's from their own lands and therefore knows the dangers of exposing herself to a vampire starved for blood. There are no bites on her throat or wrists, so she's not a blood-sharer. The tribal tattoo she bears on her forearm - a snarling feline - is that of his captors, but he can see that it's freshly applied and therefore meant only as camoflage.

Besides, he can think of no reason for her to lie to him; if she wants to do him harm, then all she has to do is wait a few more days until the sun burns him to a pile of ash. So he allows her to lead him down the winding mountain path, resting his arm on her thin shoulders until they reach the first unconscious guard.

He hears her gasp as he rips the man's throat out, guzzling down the hot, life-sustaining blood until there's barely a drop left in his body. He stares up at the girl, blood dripping from his chin, gauging her reaction, nodding sharply when he sees that she's composed herself as he fed. "What's your name?" he asks as he jumps lightly to his feet, feeling better than he has in nearly half a year.

She gives a him a wary look before answering. "Molly. Molly Hooper. And you're Sherlock Holmes, the Clan Leader's missing brother." She tries a small smile as he wipes his face clean with a rag torn from the dead man's tunic. "You need to go. There are caves to the west; if you run you can get to them before full sunrise. They won't look for you there, since they'll be expecting you to go southeast, to get back home."

"What about you?" he asks, not sure why he's so troubled by the fact that she doesn't seem to plan to go with him.

She shrugs. "I'm not fast enough to travel with a vampire, I'd only hold you back. And I don't count, you're the one that's important, that needs to get home safely."

Anger rushes over him like a hot wave. "Who told you that, Mycroft? Oh no, Molly Hooper, you do count. You risked your life to save mine and that's worth a thousand of me, the idiot who got himself captured by a bunch of humans because he was too arrogant to bring a daytime guard while out wandering in unknown territory."

He steps closer to her; she jerks back in surprise when he grabs her wrist. "What, what are you doing?" she stutters, eyes wide and apprehensive - but not for herself, only for him, as her next words prove. "Let me go, you're just wasting time…"

"No." With that, he swings her into his arms and peers down the steep side of the lower cliff at which the guard was posted. "Keeping you alive is hardly a waste of time."

Before she can protest again, he's jumped, holding her tightly, enjoying the feel of her arms around his neck and shoulders, her face pressed against him, her heart thumping wildly against his chest. He lands not as lightly as he would like, but only stumbles a bit - and, more importantly, doesn't drop her. "Hold on tight," he whispers against the top of her head. "I'm going to run now, we're going to get to those caves together - and we're going home together. Got it?"

"Yes," she replies softly, peeking up at him with a shy smile.

He smiles back, then he runs, racing daylight for the promised safety of the western caves…and looks forward to learning more about his brave little human woman once they arrive there.


	21. Dinner With The Bickersons

_anonymous asked: For the drabble thing- 1, 28 & 38?_

 _A/N: The prompts are the first three sentences in the fic. Enjoy, and thanks as ever for following, favoriting and reviewing!_

 _EXTRA A/N: Additional bit added to the end for mistykins06 - Rated T._

* * *

"The skirt is supposed to be this short."

"You're still mad?"

"You leave whenever you feel like it."

John gaped at the bickering couple in front of him, head going back and forth as if he was watching a tennis match instead of eating dinner with his daughter's godparents on a secluded patio overlooking the Bay of Naples. _It's a good thing we decided to have room service delivered instead of going out for dinner,_ he reflected as he took in the rapidly escalating disagreement in front of him.

Sherlock (no surprise there) had started it, mainly by acting all offended when it was clear that Molly was still mad at him. So instead of just telling her he was sorry or shoving his face full of food, he'd decided to attack, sniping about her floral minidress, which was perfectly lovely and suitable for the warm summer night. It was their last day in Italy; they were wrapping up a case while Mary, not quite recovered enough from being shot by Vivian Norbury to go globetrotting after a jewel thief, stayed home with Rosie.

"Seriously, Molly, I can almost see your knickers," Sherlock continued with his sniping. "You'd think you were on the pull."

"Maybe I am," she said smartly. If one were keeping score, John thought bemusdely, one would suspect that she was well ahead of Sherlock. Who knew that verbal sparring was her sport?

Yup, she'd definitely scored on that one, judging by the size of the pout now pursing Sherlock's lips. "I can't believe you're still that mad about what I said before."

"What, that I'm not exactly femme-fatale material? Or when you told the suspect that it was no good flirting with me because I was terrible at it?"

"You are!" Sherlock half-shouted, raking his fingers through his hair. "You only seem to attract idiots or dangerous men, and that…that…GIT…was both!"

"I don't care," Molly said mulishly. She pushed her chair back from the table, deliberately crossing her legs. John heard Sherlock swallow, and wished he'd had the foresight to put his mobile on so he could record this for his wife. She'd love it, every second of it. "Like I said, you can leave. Anytime." She jerked her head toward the door. "So why not now? Case is over, you've once again made it clear that I'm undatable and have horrible taste in men…"

"What? Who said you're undatable? I never said that!" Sherlock responded in outrage. "You're not undatable, that's not the problem!" He hardly seemed to notice that he'd jumped to his feet in his agitation; John scooted his chair back just a bit and began fishing in his back pocket for his mobile as unobtrusively as he could manage.

"Then what IS the problem?" Molly demanded through gritted teeth. Without taking her gaze from Sherlock (having stood up so they were closer to being eye-to-eye), she pointed at John. "You take one single snap John Watson and I swear I'll tell your wife you were flirting with that woman on the bus the other day."

"I never was," he sputtered out in protest - but he did, reluctantly, take his hand away from his pocket. Mary would just have to make do with a verbal recreation of whatever was this…thing…was between Sherlock and Molly.

"The problem is that you have horrible taste in men yet you won't give me the time of day even though you and Tom have been broken up for over a year and even though you said you understood about Janine and even though I haven't gone near a needle since Magnussen!"

Molly gaped at him, turned to stare at John (who merely shrugged), then returned her befuddled stare to Sherlock. "Wait…what? Are you saying you want to…"

"Date you, be with you, do more than just share a bed a few times a week, marry you, put my babies in your belly? Yes to all of that," Sherlock practically snarled as he shoved his chair aside and edged around the table until he and Molly were only inches apart. He reached out, his movements far more tentative than his impassioned words, and brushed a tendril of hair away from her cheek. "Or have you completely gotten over me, for real this time?"

Molly's eyes narrowed, and John groaned silently. Couldn't that idiot have just stopped? Why did he have to spoil the moment with that little dig about Tom?

"You throw that in my face ever again - and I do mean EVER again - William Sherlock Scott Holmes," she growled (oh yeah, definitely a growl, he'd have to be sure to use that specific word when he talked to Mary), "and we. Are. THROUGH. Got it?"

"Can't be through if we never star…uh, yes, got it," Sherlock said, smartly correcting himself mid-course and proving that he could be taught.

He was nodding and Molly was still giving him a stony-faced glare when her hands shot out, grabbed the lapels of his jacket, and yanked him down so they were face to face. "Good," she breathed, then proceeded to snog him breathless.

John stood up, carefully pushed his chair in, opened the patio doors, stepped into the hotel room he was sharing with Sherlock, flipped open his mobile, and grinned as he began throwing his clothes into hi valise. "Hey, Mary? You're never gonna believe what just happened…"

 **LATER...**

Sherlock brushed his hands over the tops of Molly's thighs, just skimming the filmy hem of her sundress. "May I amend a previous statement?" he murmured, his breath warm against her ear.

"Which one?" she murmured back, brushing her fingers against the curls on the nape of his neck.

He gave a little shudder. "The one about this dress being too short. That's not the actual problem with it."

"And what is the actual problem?" Molly asked, pulling her head back to look him in the eyes.

"It's not too short, it's just too much on you. It needs to come off. Now," he added decisively, fingers moving with more purpose now, both hands grasping the hem tightly.

Molly raised her arms and smiled, eyes dark. "Well then, in that case...be my guest."

And oh, he very much was.


	22. Fangs for the Mammaries

**Fangs for the Mammaries**

 _andydona-chan asked: Hello! Are you still taking prompts? I couldn't chose between 6 or 9, on one hand I would love to hear Molly say the 6_ _th_ _(_ _"I just like proving you wrong.")_ _, but Sherlock and 'bites' also sounds appealing. ("_ _Quit it or I'll bite.")_

 _I opted for both prompts in this humorous little vamp!lock fic. Rated T, but only very lightly._

 _I offer no apologies for the punny title. Sometimes those things just write themselves._

* * *

Sherlock gaped at Molly for a solid minute - she counted - before finally closing his mouth. Very slowly. And backing away a single step, just as slowly before visibly forcing himself to stop. "Why, why are you revealing this to me now?" he finally managed to ask.

Molly smiled sweetly, fangs still fully extended. "You said you knew everything there was to know about me, that there wasn't anything I could surprise you with, especially since we started living together." She gave a small shrug. "What can I say, I just like proving you wrong."

Sherlock sidled forward, eyeing her cautiously, reaching up with his index finger extended. "So. You're a vampire?"

Molly nodded. "Yup."

He sidled even closer, finger still extended. "And you've been a vampire the entire time we've been romantically involved? The entire time I've known you? "

"Sherlock, I've been a vampire since I was _born_ ," she replied in exasperation. "I told you that."

"Hmm, yes, right," he replied with an absent nod. The shock - but never terror, she could smell fear and he rarely had that scent to him - had been replaced by fascination, just as she'd known it would be. "Sooo…" he said, inching even closer and putting his extended finger just in front of her mouth. "If I were to ask for some samples to study…"

His fingertip grazed her fang; she batted his hand away with a huff of half-exasperation and half-humor. "Stop it or I'll bite," she threatened.

His eyes positively lit up. "Really? Would you let me record it? Or would biting kill me or turn me into a vampire? I really have to read up on my mythology…"

Molly giggled and grasped his hand, holding it to her chest. "It's not like the myths, Sherlock, except for the fangs and the biting and the needing blood to survive," she explained. "I'm not undead, you've seen me go out in daylight and you've felt my pulse a thousand times. Biting won't kill you - I can only take in so much blood, especially on a full stomach - and there's no turning into a vampire. Either you're born one or you're not."

He nodded, then gave her a speculative look. "So if we were to have a baby, would it be human, vampire or a true mix of both?"

She gave him her most seductive grin. "How about we stop using condoms and find out?"

His enthusiastic kiss - and the slide of his hand down her chest so he could squeeze her breast through her colorful jumper - was all the answer she needed.


	23. A Life Backwards

_fietje07 asked:Drabble challenge Sherlolly. Can I have #12, 44 and 67? Thanks a million_

 _Prompts are: 12. "I'm pregnant." 44. "Well that's the second biggest news I've heard all day." and 67. "You're strong, baby. You have to be."_

 _Rated a very light T._

* * *

It was their favorite story, the one about themselves - all the hows and whys and wheres of their earliest existence (less the bit about how they were conceived - no matter how inquisitive, advanced-for-their-age and intelligent the Holmes twins were, that was one story neither parent would ever tell and one they thankfully had no interest in hearing). Best of all was how both Mum and Dad had their own ways of telling it, so that even though it was the same in the facts, it was endlessly changing in the details.

Especially once Dad started challenging them to ask for it in different ways and not just as a straight retelling.

"Tell it in sign language," Hamish and Hester chorused when they were three. "Tell it in French," the demanded when they were four and bored. "Tell it on paper in the Dancing Men code" had been their request at five. And now, at six, it was "Tell it backward."

Molly settled on the sofa next to her husband, holding baby Gregory and smiling, just as interested to hear this version as the twins were. He laid an arm across her shoulder, kissed Gregory's head (causing the baby's forehead to wrinkle up and his little lips to purse, even in his sleep), and pretended to go into his mind palace to rearrange the facts.

"Your mother asked me how you both looked, since the nurse and doctor had bustled you off to drain out the mucus you'd decided to hoard in your lungs," he began, eyes sparkling. "I, being utterly in control as always…" Here he widened his eyes in mock-innocence while wife and sprogs giggled. "…blurted out the first thing that came to mind."

"He said you looked like a couple of turnips," Molly supplied helpfully. It was hardly spoiling things when the story'd been told so many times.

"Nasty old wrinkly turnips," Hamish added gleefully from where he was sprawled out on the carpet. He elbowed his sister. "She did, anyway, cause she's ancient compared to me."

Hester was three minutes older than he was and never missed a chance to remind him of that. Just as he never missed a chance to prod her about being an old lady. Ah, the joys of siblinghood.

"Yup, turnips," Sherlock replied equably. "Purple, moldy-looking turnips that had been kept in the vegetable drawer too long. But," he added with a dramatic sigh, "your mother said we couldn't let you cook a bit longer."

Molly nodded. "Right, there was absolutely no putting you back, not after all the work I'd done!"

Sherlock gave her a doting look. "When she was still having a hard time ejecting you, stubborn brats that you were, I looked into her eyes, let her squeeze the sh…crap out of my hand and forever ruin my chances of becoming a concert violinist, and for the first time ever used a ridiculously sentimental pet name for her. And do you know what I said?" He peered over at the twins questioningly.

" _You're strong, baby. You have to be_ ," they chorused, rolling their eyes.

"Glad you don't do that anymore," Hester added. "It's silly."

"And so it is," Sherlock agreed. "Luckily your mother thought so too because she just giggled a bit, for the first time in fourteen hours, thirty-one minutes. Give or take a few seconds."

He skimmed over the next (previous?) bits about arriving at hospital and calling Uncle John and Aunt Mary, zeroing in on what he knew was one of the twins' favorite parts - when Molly had announced oh-so-calmly that she'd been in labor the entire day and night he'd been off chasing a jewel thief through the rooftops of London. "I came home after my triumphant capture of Julian 'Jools' Voleur to find your mother packing her overnight bag. I was so caught up in the excitement of the chase–"

"And so loopy from lack of sleep," Molly interjected in a stage whisper.

"–that I missed the obvious signs of what was happening right in front of me," Sherlock continued, not missing a beat. "Which meant I was doing what?"

"Seeing but not observing!" the twins responded with wide grins. They high-fived one another before settling back onto their elbows.

"Exactly." Sherlock nodded his approval. "I was seeing but not observing. I burst into the house, coat flaring dramatically behind me, unwinding my scarf and not stumbling over Toby II as I began explaining how I'd captured the idiot when he jumped onto what he thought was a solid roof but turned out to be a very dirty skylight, thus crashing into the parlor of Sir George Westingham and landing on that very man's very startled - and very, very angry - financial advisor. I had just got to the good bit, where I acrobatically and gracefully swooped into the room, cuffs in one hand and mobile in the other to call Uncle Greg, when your mother stopped me with her hand over my mouth."

"Oh, weren't you put out by that!" Molly reminisced with a giggle. "The glares your father was giving me!" To show no hard feelings, she leaned over and kissed the tip of his nose.

"And that's when she said it," Sherlock declared, after returning the kiss. "She has a real way with words when she wants to, your mother. 'Well that's the second biggest news I've heard all day,' she said to me, and that's when I stopped seeing and started observing…and dashed the three of you off to the hospital."

Next he talked about measuring Molly's tummy, about researching the latest trends in child-rearing strategies (useless, all of them) and finally being forced to ask Uncle John for advice (even more useless), and all the rest until there was only one thing left to tell.

The twins sat up, leaning forward with their hands on their knees in anticipation of what - sometimes, depending on their mood - was their favorite part of the whole story.

"So," Sherlock said, clapping his hands on his lap and making as if to stand up. "That's all the best bits, time for bed, I think."

"No! Dad! You have to tell the part with Mum and how she told you about us!"

He tilted his head to one side in faux-confusion. "The what, the who, the where, the why, the how?"

Molly scooted over, giggling quietly as she waited for what was sure to happen next. Right on schedule the twins scrambled to their feet and rushed over to their father, clambering up onto the sofa and from there to his lap, demanding that he tell them the best part, right now, it wasn't fair if he skipped it until finally, laughingly, he ceded the point. "Very well, then. If you insist."

He sat with an arm around either of them, lowering his voice in a conspiratorial whisper. "Your mum and I had just admitted, for the first time out loud and in front of witnesses, that we loved one another. Other crazy things were happening at the time–" They hadn't yet told the twins more than the bare facts of their Aunt Eurus' existence and had no plans to disclose that truth for a few more years– "so as soon as I could I rushed over here to explain to your mum that I wasn't trying to hurt her."

He turned to look at Molly with such a tender expression of love in his eyes that her breath caught. He could still make her heart flutter, and make her lady-bits do something quite similar, and her return smile promised all sorts of lovely possibilities after the children were in bed. "I knew he hadn't meant it that way," Molly replied, just as quietly - and, had she been able to observe herself from the outside, with quite the same tender expression in her eyes. "I knew it wasn't meant to hurt me or for an experiment or a case, once I'd had a chance to think it over."

"And I confirmed that belief, showed her that her faith in me was justified," Sherlock said, taking up the reverse-narrative thread once again. "I came into her flat and I apologized and I explained about how she'd been threatened and how we'd both been forced to confess such a wonderful secret under such awful circumstances. I even told her that Uncle John and Uncle Mycroft had heard the whole thing, and asked her again to forgive me."

"And then?" Hester prompted when he fell silent, losing himself in his wife's loving gaze.

"And then," he concluded, "she said the most wonderful thing to me. She said…"

" _I'm pregnant_ ," he, Molly and the twins chorused.

And their lives had never been the same from that moment on…in the best way possible.

* * *

 _A/N: Yes, I took the title from a Ben C. movie. Yes, I love and adore all the reviews I get - you guys rock! And yes, if you look up the thief's name you'll find I couldn't resist a cheesy pun._


	24. Most Ardently

_ladyjenniferr asked: Hi! I'm not sure if I'm supposed to give prompts here or if you are looking to receive any but here goes... I love period sherlolly. Sherlock from an influential old family...but poor. Molly from a merchant family who struck it rich but have no title...I leave the rest to your incredible imagination._

 _This is an old ask I've left laying in my inbox for far too long (let's just say I received in July and never mind July of what year). Have some K rated arranged marriage Regency Sherlolly with just a dash of Jane Austen_ _. I hope you enjoy it!_

* * *

"Papa, are you certain about this? Do you truly think that his lordship and I will make a good match?"

Matthew Hooper took his daughters hands in his and met her worried gaze with a calm smile. "Yes, my dear. Lord Sherlock was very agreeable when his parents and I broached the subject of joining our two families by your marriage."

"Agreeable but hardly enthusiastic, I'm sure," Molly murmured, remembering all too well the coolness with which she'd been greeted by Sir Sherlock at their every meeting. "And I'm certain his brother was not so agreeable." Sir Mycroft had been even more cool and distant than his younger brother at their one and only meeting, a feat she'd not thought possible. "He despises us because we're nothing but a, a bunch of jumped-up commoners seeking to better ourselves by buying a title."

Her father shrugged, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Well, and so we are. But it was your later mother's fondest wish to see you settled well, to keep you from falling into marriage with some opportunistic social climber who was only interested in your money…"

"And now I am the opportunistic social climber instead," Molly cut in bitterly. "And I can assure you that Sir Sherlock and his parents are only interested in my - our - money as well…"

"I can assure you that is far from true, at least as far as I am concerned."

Molly and Matthew both turned in surprise at the sound of the unexpected voice. Molly's face flushed a bright pink at the sight of her husband-to-be, standing in the doorway to the parlor, a very nervous looking maid hovering behind him. "So sorry, he just pushed his way in past Anderson, insisted on seeing you.."

"It's fine, Sarah," Molly assured the younger woman. "Please have Madame Chow prepare tea for our guest."

The relieved servant dispatched, all that was left to do was to invite Sir Sherlock into the room. He and Matthew exchanged handshakes; some unspoken message seemed to pass between them, and within moments Molly found herself alone with her future husband while her father made his excuses and hurried from the room.

"I am sorry that you heard me say such horrible things," Molly said after a moment. "Please, won't you have a seat?" She perched on the edge of the settee, expecting him to take the basket seat opposite, but was surprised when he chose instead to seat himself next to her. Rather closer than was proper, much to her dismay - and secret pleasure.

"I notice that you did not say you were sorry for saying them," Sir Sherlock noted, a hint of humor in his lovely baritone. Why oh why did he have to be so attractive? Molly silently lamented, not for the first time. Attractive and intelligent, but as cold as his elder brother to her at their every meeting thus far.

She flushed pinker at his words. Of course he would have observed that she wasn't actually apologizing to him. And why should she? He had come into their home uninvited and unannounced, eavesdropped on a private conversation, and somehow managed to put her father from the room without a single word. She wasn't sorry at all, she decided crossly.

He smiled at her. "And now you have decided to be angry with me," he said, correctly deducing her expression and emotional upheaval. "As well you should be - and not just for my actions today," he added, his own expression softening into a sort of rueful tenderness that took her very much by surprise. "I have been a poor suitor indeed, and it is I who must offer up an apology for making you feel as if you are nothing to me but a means of financial stability for my family. I can assure you, nothing could be farther from the truth."

"Then what is the truth?" Molly asked, hardly daring to breathe as she met his gaze.

Her hands only trembled a little as he folded them into his. "The truth, Miss Hooper, is that I was quite put out when I discovered that my supposedly common, boring, social-climbing mouse was actually none of those things. Your intelligence was unexpected; you've done a masterful job at hiding it, as is expected for a woman of either your class or my own, but it piqued my interest from the start. That I hid such interest so well that you never sensed is a source of both shame and annoyance to me now."

He seemed to hesitate, and Molly, heart racing in her chest, squeezed his hands before asking, "And is that…all?"

The rueful smile returned to his beautiful mouth. "Ah, so it is as I thought; you _do_ see me, Miss Hooper. No, it was not merely your intelligence that caught my attention, but also the fact that you were clearly doing this not to improve your own social standing, but out of a sense of both duty and - difficult though it was for me to believe at first - love for your parents, especially in regards to your late mother. It has always seemed foolish to me to be so desirous of honoring the wishes of the dead that one would put their own needs aside in order to do so. And in this case, that still holds true," he added with a slight frown puckering the flesh between his eyebrows. "However, that is not the point."

"And what is the point, Sir Sherlock?" Molly asked, a slight smile hovering about her lips as she intuited where the conversation seemed to be heading.

"The point, Miss Hooper," he replied with an answering smile, "is that I have, much to my chagrin, found that I not only respect and admire you, but that I love you. Most ardently."

So happy was she to hear such words from his lips that Molly very nearly missed his next question. "I'm sorry?" she said, blushing yet again.

"I said, would you mind very much if we were to dispense with the formalities when we are in private?" he repeated with a twinkle in his eyes. "I would very much like permission to use your first name, and to hear you drop the 'sir' from mine."

She nodded. "Very well…Sherlock. You may call me by my Christian name."

"Molly." With that single word, the first time she'd heard it from his lips, he leaned forward and laid his mouth against hers in a sweet kiss. "Molly Hooper, soon to be Holmes," he pronounced after the kiss had ended. "I believe this match will be very much to both our advantages - finances and titles be damned."

And so it turned out to be.


	25. Waiting For Just The Right Bee

_A/N: This is a little ficlet I posted on tumblr when S4 aired, based on intense discussion of (what else?) exactly what flowers were on Molly's christening dress during TST. Some T rated fluff for all you lovelies who continue to read and review my stories. Thank you so very much._

* * *

Sherlock's breathing was hard and raspy; his fingers twitched incessantly and he could absolutely NOT tear his eyes away from Molly Hooper's red-flower-bedecked dress. "Oi, where are you going?" Lestrade called out as he abruptly walked away from the man he'd been - not listening to but being nattered at by.

Sherlock waved impatiently over his shoulder, eyes still zeroed in on Molly, who was standing across the Watson's sitting room, chatting animatedly with someone…Mrs. Hudson, he noted with the small part of his brain not entirely focused on his pathologist.

His lovely, sparkling, adorable, brightly dressed pathologist. Who had finally noticed his approach, her wide brown eyes going even wider as she met his gaze. He ignored anyone who tried to get his attention - John, Mary, a few other random guests whose names he couldn't be bothered to remember - and only stopped when he was inches away from Molly. "We need to talk," he rasped, reaching out to wrap his fingers around one of her delicate wrists. "Now."

Molly called out breathless, bewildered apologies as Sherlock virtually dragged her up the stairs to the nursery. With a flick of an eye he took in its unoccupied status: Rosamund wouldn't be sleeping in the cot for another month at least, the day bed had never been used although it was freshly made up…and the door could be locked from the inside. A clever precaution on Mary's part, one he most heartily approved.

Especially today.

"Sherlock, what's wrong, what–mmph!"

Molly's concerned question was smothered beneath Sherlock's questing lips as he swept her into his arms and kissed her. He didn't realize he was moving her at the same time until her knees hit the edge of the day bed and buckled. He willingly collapsed down on top of her, still kissing her, hands busy beneath her body, undoing the zip to that dress, the one that had finally been his own undoing. "Molly," he groaned, being sure to press himself firmly against her, hard enough that she could feel that he was - well, _hard enough_. "Please don't make me beg and explain and apologize for being an arse and waiting this long to understand all you mean to me and how much I want you. Please, please just let me make love to you, let me give you a baby we'll both love as much as John and Mary clearly love Rosamund."

Molly's answer was an excited wriggle as she helped him strip her of the dress, and an even more excited series of kisses as they eventually peeled themselves fully free of their clothing.

Sherlock's phone buzzed incessantly the entire time - he had forty-three messages and seventeen voice mails by the time he relocated it an hour later, under the bed and against the baseboard - but it wasn't even close to the top of his list of priorities at the time.

When he and Molly made their rather disheveled reappearance at the top of that hour, it was to discover that the party had ended, and to face a disapproving John and trying-to-hide-her-smiles Mary waiting for them in the sitting room. Rosamund was sleeping in her carry-cot, looking angelic as always, but when Sherlock tried to distract her parents by pointing that out, John was having none of it. "You," he growled pointing at Sherlock, "tell me you did not just spend an hour defiling my daughter's nursery."

Sherlock shrugged and put an arm around Molly's shoulder. "Actually…" he started to say, but John wasn't finished.

"And you," he said, turning his finger - and glower - on Molly. "I expect better from you, Molly. This one is just an overgrown child with poor impulse control, but you…"

"But I am a woman who's been in love with this overgrown child with poor impulse control for a very long time," Molly interrupted him in her most no-nonsense tone of voice. "So you'll have to excuse me for not turning him down now that he's finally dragged his head out of his arse and realized he's in love with me and has been for a lot longer than he was willing to admit. Also we're hoping to have you standing as godparents for our own baby in about a year so let's not start it off with recriminations, all right? I promise I'll change the linens if you show me where they are."

Mary laughed and stood up, crossing the room to give both Molly and Sherlock huge hugs and kisses. After a moment of gaping and spluttering, John shook his head slowly and joined the others.

"Just remember all the rules we set up when Rosie was born," he muttered in Sherlock's ear as he hugged him. "One single experiment and I guarantee Molly and the baby will be out the door…and you'll deserve every miserable moment you suffer afterwards."

"Understood," Sherlock muttered back. He tugged himself free of the group embrace. "Right. Molly and I have a great deal of time to make up for, so…" He clapped his hands together briskly. "Linens are at the top of the stairs in the closet by the bathroom…"

"Oh, go on with you," Mary said with a cackle. "I'll take care of the linens. You two just…go do what you obviously want to keep doing for probably the rest of the night and well into the morning!"

Molly, who hadn't blushed once during this entire exchange, finally turned as red as one of the cheerful flowers (hibiscus? nasturtium? Mary wasn't sure and didn't care) on her dress. Sherlock just beamed down at her, tucked her under his arm, and hustled her out of the house and into the cab no one realized he'd already summoned.

Luckily for them, a few extra quid kept the cabbie's objections to their activities to a minimum for the duration of the ride to Baker Street.


	26. The Case That Can't Be Solved

_coffeepath on tumblr requested For the meme thing (wherein I was given a title and was supposed to describe the fic I would write for it): a case which cannot be solved_

 _The fic I would write for that title would be a very simple one. So simple I'm actually writing it. Enjoy!_

* * *

"Molly, I need your help."

"Of course, Sherlock, what is it?"

"A case."

"Right, is John not available? Or do you mean you need me to watch Rosie while the two of you are off chasing the bad guys?" Molly smiled to show she wasn't upset if that was the case; watching her god-daughter was one of her favorite things to do.

Sherlock shook his head and stepped closer. "No, it doesn't involve either John or Rosie. Just…you."

Molly felt her breathing get a bit rough as she stared up at him. "So what does this case involve, exactly?"

"It's an old case, one that I've been unable to solve for about, hmm, seven years now," he replied, and Molly's heart beat faster. He reached out and stroked his fingers along the side of her face. "And if it wasn't for my sister, I doubt I would have ever come even this close to solving it, since I wasn't aware it was a case until she forced us to speak those three little words."

"So the unsolvable case is…"

"You, Molly Hooper," he replied, tilting her head up and holding her gaze. "And I hope never to be able to solve it."

Then he kissed her, and Molly found herself agreeing with his logic for the few, brief seconds she remained capable of rational thought.


	27. She Always Saves Him, Even From Himself

_A/N: This was inspired by a lovely sketch on tumblr by sherlolly artist extraordinaire, artbylexie. Rated K+ fantasy for your reading pleasure. Thank you as always for your lovely reviews, they are all appreciated!_

* * *

"Stop smiling at them, Mahli," Sh'rlock chided without disturbing the disdainful purse of his lips. "The Humans will think we welcome their presence."

Instead of disciplining her mouth into a neutral expression - the best he knew his emotional, soft-hearted wife could manage unless specifically angry with either some perceived injustice or, more often, _him_ \- her smile only widened. "But I _do_ welcome their presence, husband," she said softly, turning her gaze up to meet his. "Your father has agreed that it's past time for us to close the gap between the peoples of Middle Earth, lest we find ourselves locked into pointless battle yet again. Do not forget how poorly things went for you when you were trapped in dragon form," she added with a raised eyebrow.

Sh'rlock winced at the memory. "Yes, well, enchantments never end well. I was merely fortunate that you were there when my body crashed into the lake and were able to extract my soul and replace it in my proper form…"

She arched an eyebrow at him. "Lucky?" she repeated pointedly.

He sighed. "Blessed," he corrected himself, taking her hand warmly between both of his. "Lucky in the sense that you were so determined to save me when I'd long despaired of ever breaking the spell, when I'd become so consumed by my draconic nature that I'd lost almost all semblance of Elvishness." He brought her hand up to his and reverently kissed her knuckles, rapidly-approaching Human audience be damned. "Lucky that you never gave up on me, not once, O One Who Matters Most, my lady wife, my love."

Molly's smiled turned heart-meltingly warm as her beautiful brown eyes - eyes he'd once scoffed at as being 'too Human' - met his gaze. "And I am lucky that you were willing to _be_ saved, O Former Smaug The Terrible, King Under the Mountain, whose claws are swords, whose breath is de…"

He silenced her - and indeed, the entire assemblage of Humans and their Elven escort, who had finally crossed the vast reaches of the receiving hall - by swooping down to plant a kiss on her lips. Of all the things he'd ever revealed to her, telling her of his boasts was the one he regretted most. He should have known she'd never stop teasing him about it.

The kiss lingered until the leader of the Human delegation cleared his throat. Loudly. "Perhaps this is a bad time…?" the short Human male - John Waterson, was it? - said with more than a hint of humour in his voice.

Sh'rlock was minded to retort that it would always be a bad time for Humans to interrupt Elves, but a discreet (not really, but he chose to characterize it thus) elbow in the ribs from his wife silenced him as effectively as his kiss had her. "Welcome, honoured guests," he said instead, the opening to the speech his parents had helped him prepare. "Welcome to the first - but as I'm certain we all hope, not the last - Convocation of the Three Races." He swept out one arm to indicate they should ascend the stairs to join him and his wife - whose waist was now held firmly in his other arm. "My wife and I are pleased to escort you to your quarters."

The look of pleased approval Mahli gave him as the Humans bowed their acceptance of the offer was all the reward he would ever need - until later, of course, when he could show her in more detail exactly how much he appreciated her keeping the lingering personal demons in his soul at bay.


	28. You're Kilting Me, Molls

_sunken-standard said for the sentence ask meme: "Do I even want to know why you're wearing that?" Rated K+, enjoy!_

* * *

"Do I even want to know why you're wearing that?"

"For a case," Sherlock replied, then frowned as he realized Molly was saying the words right along with him. While smirking. And waggling her eyebrows.

 _Intolerable,_ he grumped to himself.

Intolerably _adorable_.

Not that he was about to tell HER that, when she was obviously in a mood to wind him up.

"Do you get to play the bagpipes as well?" she asked, giggling as she stirred her coffee. She stifled a yawn while hitching her - his - dressing gown back up her shoulder.

"No bagpipes," he replied, managing to tear his eyes away from that tantalizing glimpse of exposed shoulder before she noticed him looking. "Although I could manage if I had to, thanks to some unfortunate summers spent with cousins in Aberdeen." He tilted his head to one side. "Why, do you like bagpipe players?"

Molly dimpled, peering innocently at him over her steaming mug of coffee. "What can I say, I love a man who knows how to wrap his lips around a blowstick."

She shrieked with laughter as Sherlock, kilt and all, chased her around the flat in mock outrage.


	29. Bolthole Buddies

_A litle K rated fic written for the winterspy as a 2017 Sherlolly Secret Santa fic, based on this Toby HC: Toby the cat hates all the men. But then Sherlock Holmes comes in all cat-hating and broody, and he and Toby get on like a house on fire._

* * *

 **Off to a Bad Start**

The first time Sherlock meets Toby is exactly six months after he meets Molly Hooper. He's stunned by the existence of the cat; Molly never has cat hairs on her clothes or scratches on her hands, nor has she ever mentioned having a cat in his hearing. (He discovers her blog after the fact and curses himself for not reading it before that first impromptu visit, but allows Molly to soothe his ruffled feathers by fussing over him and brushing the cat hairs from his trouser legs and fixing him a cup of tea that is vastly superior to the coffee she makes for him at Barts - although, to be fair, it's more likely the coffee than the maker that's at fault.)

The problem is, he isn't a cat person; he much prefers dogs. But he's discovered that Molly Hooper has somewhat of a soothing effect on his thoughts; when he's with her - particularly when he's alone with her away from Bart's - his mind stills. Slows. Just being with her helps him relax enough to connect the dots in whatever case is plaguing him.

So he decides he has to put up with her cat if he wants to continue to use her flat as a bolthole, even after Molly warns him about Toby-the-manhater. Whose disposition Sherlock already witnessed when the cat hissed at him and ran away to hide as soon as Sherlock set foot inside the door. "He's a bit, um, picky about who he likes. He loves my friend Meena and her sister and my other friend Katie, but he's never liked any of the blokes the three of us have brought here." She laughs, somewhat awkwardly. "Especially, erm, the ones I bring round. I'm afraid he's a bit of a man-hater. Sorry."

Sherlock isn't sure why she's apologizing, unless she's personally trained the cat in his alleged man-hating ways. "It's fine," he says as he sits at her kitchen peninsula and blows on his cup of (really, quite superior) tea to cool it. "I'm not particularly fond of cats myself."

That's a bit of an understatement, truth be told. His previous landlady (previous to Mrs. Hudson, not previous to Molly who is in no way, shape or form to be considered his landlady even if he does plan to use her spacious flat as a bolthole now that he's discovered its comforts) kept cats. Nine of the furry little nuisances, to be exact. Three of whom appeared to love him and the rest of whom appeared to hate him with the burning passion of a thousand nuclear reactors. All of whom managed to trip him up at least once a day when he was trying to reach the safety of his third-floor flat. Whether it was out of a desire for his attention or a desire to do him bodily harm, the result was the same.

Thus, he'd reached the very logical conclusion that there was no difference between a cat liking you and a cat hating you. Thus he knew that he would hate Molly's cat no matter how it felt about him. (And whenever it decided to stop lurking suspiciously in the back hall and come into the kitchen and face him like a man. Neutered male. Whatever.)

Thus he is entirely confounded when, on his third visit, he discovers that he and Toby actually have quite a bit in common.

Hating Molly's dates is _definitely_ one of those things.

 **Détente**

Amnesty is declared when a mutual enemy - or rather, _pair_ of enemies - is agreed upon.

Tom is one of them. That Dog is another

Sherlock is a dog person, no question about it. He is also in a state of mind where he wants Molly's happiness more than he wants his own. Toby will never be a dog person (cat, rather) and he has never put anyone's happiness above his own, at least in Sherlock's mind.

But Tom and That Dog are both trying his patience very severely this evening, and only the fact that Toby is sitting on his lap and purring keeps him from leaving.

That, and Molly's presence, of course.

She isn't always there when the bolthole is needed, but Sherlock knows he's welcome any time. He knows this to be a fact because she told him so before his two-year absence.

Tom and That Dog supposedly understand this as well, and yet…

Tom is pursing his lips and trying not to look like he's itching to ask Molly to throw Sherlock out of the flat. That Dog is perched on his ridiculous pillow with his ridiculous snub nose and his ridiculous fluffy fur sneering at both man and cat sitting on the sofa.

Molly is desperately pretending she doesn't feel the tension in the room.

Toby is making his preference known very aggressively as he butts his head on Sherlock's arm in a demand to be pet.

He's never let Tom pet him without scratching the man, a fact which Molly inadvertently let slip earlier this evening.

Both Sherlock and Toby are very smug about this fact.

They will both be even smugger in about a year's time when Tom and That Dog are both long gone…and Sherlock has moved into Molly's flat whilst keeping Baker Street as a work- and experiment-space.

Because he's made Molly a Solemn Promise never to bring the Work into her home again. Not after Sherrinford and Eurus and that horrible, soul-destroying - not to mention wonderful, soul- _freeing_ \- phone call.

Also because Toby will never forgive him if he ever accidentally-on-purpose dyes his fur bright green again.


	30. I'll Be Watching You

_Based on this tumblr post by moxperidot: **my favorite thing about "fbi/nsa agent monitoring my computer" things is it implies that there is at least one agent for every single person on earth with a computer.** To which petty-dabbler-of-the-dark-arts responded: **NSA agent Soulmate AU.** Which inspired my "yeah it's creepy but not meant to be taken seroiusly" story (Rated K)._

* * *

He was bored. All his assignments were boring. He should never have allowed his brother to convince him to take this American assignment; there were perfectly good cases waiting back in London for him, but no, Mycroft had insisted. Not only insisted, he'd cajoled, pressured, brow-beaten and ultimately threatened him into taking this 'temporary' assignment.

He should have just agreed to take Mummy and Dad to every West End musical they wanted to see for the next ten years.

"You owe me," Sherlock muttered to himself as he placed the headset over his ears, slumped back in his seat, and braced himself for yet another day of utter boredom monitoring the computer usage of British ex-pats now living in the United States.

Two minutes later he was sitting fully upright, his eyes sweeping across the data crossing the screen in front of him, utterly, blissfully absorbed in the paper his assigned target - one Molly Hooper, Histo-pathologist, unmarried, no close family, moved to America two years before he'd met his friend John Watson - was drafting. Who knew there was one person in all the world who actually used the internet for researching something other than porn?

The next few days he found himself even more fascinated by Molly's computer habits. The elegance of her prose; no dry academic meanderings in her writing! The precise way she corrected her mis-types (very few of those). The hours she would spend searching for exactly the right word (the medical dictionary and thesaurus was a permanently open tab, bookmarked for convenience even though he'd seen her keystrokes as she rapidly typed it in herself - a touch-typist, a good one, about 80 wpm on average). Even the way she would leave open exactly one window on her server to browse for cute kitten gifs when she was frustrated fascinated instead of annoyed him.

By the end of the week, when he had time to consider the nature of his assignment, he understood exactly what his brother had been up to by seconding him to the NSA. He shot off a quick text that Friday: _Mission accomplished, brother dear. I've found my bloody soulmate. Will be contacting her in person tomorrow._

Back in London, Mycroft Holmes sat behind his desk, smiling affably at his mobile as his PA came into the office. "Good news, sir?" she asked as she set his tea cup on the desk.

"Indeed," Mycroft replied, looking up to meet her knowing gaze. His smile softened into something approaching warmth as he indicated the chair opposite his.

Anthea sank gracefully into the comfortable leather armchair, sipping demurely from her own cup of tea. "Glad to hear it, sir."

"Come, my dear," Mycroft scoffed gently. "You knew this would happen when you suggested it to me."

Anthea's eyes danced merrily as she took another sip of her tea. "Of course I did." She reached across the desk, allowing Mycroft to settle his hand atop hers. "It's how we found each other, after all."


	31. Dancing Fool

_A/N: This is based on an awesome scene from the Fred Astaire & Ginger Rogers movie Swing Time. Many thanks to writingwife83 for reading it over for me (Rated K)._

* * *

"Mr. Holmes, I'm afraid there's no way I can teach you anything! You're quite helpless!"

"No, wait, let me…" Sherlock began to scramble back to his feet as Miss Hooper disentangled herself from him and made as if to storm off.

She was stopped by the entrance of Sebastian Wilkes, the Dance Master and manager of the studio where Sherlock had been taking dance lessons for the past several weeks.

"Miss Hooper! Is that how you speak to our clients?" he demanded angrily. "Telling them you can't teach them anything? How dare you! You're fired!"

"No, wait!" Sherlock tried again, only to be interrupted this time by the unexpected appearance of John Watson as Molly stormed out of the room, Wilkes hard on her heels, still berating her.

"Sherlock, what the devil is going on? Lestrade said you found the culprits weeks ago, that the case is solved! Why are you still coming here?" John demanded, stepping aggressively in front of his friend and former flatmate as he tried to follow after the other two.

"Not now, John, I have to fix this," Sherlock said, shoving past him and hurrying out of the room.

He caught up with them in at reception, where Wilkes (surprise, surprise) was now berating Mrs. Hudson for telling off a middle-aged, overweight would-be Astaire who'd had the audacity to steal her herbal tea and drink it right in front of her. "What is with you women today?" Wilkes was blathering. "First I had to fire Miss Hooper, now you…"

Mrs. Hudson stood up and gave him a cold stare. "You fired Molly, you reptile?! Why?"

Sherlock reached the desk just as Wilkes was about to deliver a new tirade. Nope, time to end this. "As I was just trying to tell old Sebastian here," he said in his poshest, snottiest voice, "Miss Hooper was making a joke, at which I was about to laugh when he so rudely interrupted us."

Molly, carrying her coat and other belongings, had just reached the entranceway when he spoke, and stopped short, brown eyes wide with astonishment. Not giving anyone time to react further, Sherlock grasped Wilkes by the arm, doing the same to Molly and turning them both smartly back toward the main ballroom, where John still waited in utter bafflement. "Just a joke, and if you'll allow me to demonstrate...John, please put the record on, will you? Miss Hooper and I need to demonstrate to Mr. Wilkes just how excellent a dance instructor she really is."

With those words and an impatient nod for John to get on with it, Sherlock released his two bewildered captives, took precisely four steps back from Molly, and performed a perfect pirouette - a move she'd seen him utterly mangle each time he tried it previously. While Wilkes made an approving murmur, she gaped from him to Sherlock and back again.

Then John finally put the music on, the waltz she'd been trying to teach her hapless student for the past week; Sherlock assumed the correct stance, feet and hands properly placed, and beckoned for her to join him on the floor.

With another stunned look at Wilkes, Molly slowly walked toward her erstwhile student, allowing him to clasp her right hand in his and resting her left on his other arm. As the music swelled, Sherlock proceeded to lead her flawlessly around the ballroom floor, even adding a few twirls and spins she would never have believed him capable of mastering.

She felt as if she were floating, so light was he on his feet, not once treading on hers or clumsily entangling their limbs. His hands and arms remained in the correct form, his fingers clasping hers warmly, his smile seemingly designed only for her. Her own lips curled up in a smile as the music ended and they came to a stop.

It was so different, so stunningly, beautifully different to how clumsy he'd been in their private dance sessions, that it took her a moment before she could think again. And when she did...clearly he understood exactly how furious she was, because before she could do more than open her mouth, he clapped his hands together and turned to Wilkes. "So," he said briskly, "as you can see, Miss Hooper was not demotivating me to attend class, she was simply joking. Because as you can also see, she is a superior instructor. Far better than any of the other hacks you employ."

"Yes, well...I mean yes, of course, joking, got it," Wilkes stammered out. Giving a half-bow he said to Molly, "I apologize for misunderstanding the situation, Miss Hooper. Obviously you're not fired."

"Nor is Mrs. Hudson, correct?" Sherlock added smoothly. "After all, you wouldn't want to lose an employee as valuable as she just because of your inept misreading of the situation with Miss Hooper."

"Valuable?" Wilkes spluttered. "That old.."

"That _older woman_ who calms the nerves of the married ladies whose husbands come here for lessons," Sherlock finished for him with a stern look. "That _older woman_ who makes them feel as if there is a chaperone on duty, who would never put up with any...shenanigans...between married men and some of the more, shall we say, morally flexible dance instructors."

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow as he said that, and Wilkes went quite red in the face as Molly did her best to keep her smile off her lips. His affair with their most highly sought-after instructress, Miss Adler, was a poorly kept secret amongst the rest of the staff. As for Mrs. Hudson acting as a chaperone...well, if one was chaperoning a bachelor party complete with exotic dancers, she might be the woman for the job - but only if she was allowed to join in on the fun!

Putting her thoughts aside, Molly assumed a stern expression as Sherlock offered her his arm. "May I have a word in private, Miss Hooper?" he asked.

She nodded, allowed him to escort her off the floor and down the hall, then turned to face him, hands on hips. "Right. What's going on here, exactly, Mr. Holmes? You're no dancing novice!"

"No, nor am I a haberdasher," he replied, running a hand along the edge of his slicked-back hair. The motion caused an unexpected curl to bounce loose. "I am, in fact, a consulting detective who was dispatched here to discover who exactly was using this dance studio for the purpose of exchanging illicit pharmaceuticals for cash. The Met suspected it was one of the dancers - you in particular came under suspicion due to your medical studies - but I quickly realized it was two of your regular clients, both of whom have since been arrested."

"Mr. Magnussen and Mr. Smith," Molly said, after thinking it over - and once her heart had slowed back down to normal after hearing that she'd been a suspect! "They stopped coming last week - but if you made your arrests, then why have you still been pretending to be a student?"

He stepped closer, meeting her gaze with an intensity she'd never seen from him before. Her throat was quite dry when he said lowly, "Isn't it obvious, Miss Hooper?"

"N-no," she managed, heart once again pounding madly in her chest. "I'm afraid you'll have say, Mr. Holmes." Some devil prompted her to add, "Say it like you mean it."

"I stayed because of you, Molly Hooper. I found that I quite enjoy your company, and I was too much of a coward to confess that to you, especially after I'd been lying to you for weeks about my reasons for coming here. Can you forgive me?"

"I, I think that might be arranged," Molly whispered, gazing up at him with a soft smile. He wanted to spend time with her, just as she'd enjoyed spending time with him. Surely it was too good to be true - !

But no. Matching her smile with one of his own, he reached out slowly, placed his hand on her waist, and pulled her closer. Sliding one hand at the back of her neck, he murmured, "You, Molly Hooper. It's always been you," before lowering his head and claiming her lips with his own.


	32. Platonically?

_On tumblr I said: somebody tell me to write and tell me what to write or i'll keep playing online games_

 _theemptyquarto said: So I'm spinning a mental wheel and I'm in the mood for "fake married forced to share a bed OMG what will happen now (porn)" if that hits the writerly spot._

 _Rated M in case you couldn't tell. Enjoy!_

* * *

"Well, this is a fine kettle of fish," Molly muttered as she wrung out her hair over the tiny bathroom sink.

"It's not my fault they overbooked," Sherlock protested from beneath the towel he was vigorously applying to his own soaking wet locks.

It was for a case, of course. "'I need a pretend wife, Molly,'" she said in a poor mimicry of Sherlock's voice. "'It can't be a pretend husband and John looks terrible in drag so it has to be you, Molly.'" She grabbed up the other towel and wrapped it around her head as she walked into the bedroom. "'It'll be fine, nothing will go wrong, Mo—OH MY GOD WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"

Sherlock paused in the act of stripping off his wet trousers. "Getting out of these wet things, as you should be doing," he said, sounding obnoxiously practical. "After which we'll get into the bed and use body heat to dispel the chill."

With those words he very calmly continued removing his clothing while Molly remained riveted in place, unable to take her eyes off him. Oh lord he was fit, and his scars only made him even more attractive, damn him!

It was only when he was completely nude and shivering that she finally woke up to the fact that he'd just told her he wanted to share body heat with her. In the room's only bed. The only bed available within a fifty kilometer radius because of the storm, as the inn's front desk clerk had so smugly informed them when they protested the need for two rooms.

"You want me to share body heat with you…platonically?" Molly asked as he impatiently began undressing her.

Sherlock gave her a look that plainly said she was being ridiculous. Which of course was the truth; if it had been John he'd have made the same suggestion. Even if it had been Mycroft he'd have made the same suggestion. Practicality won out over modesty, right, she knew that she…was being suddenly pulled snug against Sherlock's lovely body and oh, hello there! That was _not_ the erection of a man who was planning on platonic bed-sharing.

She said that aloud in her shock and felt his body rumbling with laughter. "Yes, Molly, you're absolutely correct. No such thing as a platonic erection, nothing gets past you. Now will you please kiss me and get into that very nice, very warm bed so we can work off the chill in a non-platonic manner? It's taken me far too long to admit how I feel about you - that I want you as well as love you - and I'm more than ready to take things to the next level. Are you?"

"Um, yes, yes, that would be lovely, yes," Molly said in a rush, hurrying to get rid of the last bits of her clothes and tugging the towel off her head. "Non-platonic bed sharing, God, I've been waiting ages for you to want that!"

With those words - and more laughter from Sherlock - she managed to kick off her trousers and knickers, allowing Sherlock to do the honors to her bra. Which he managed quite well in spite of the fact that she was practically yanking his head down to meet hers for a toe-curling kiss.

They wasted no time once they were beneath the feather comforter, kissing and touching each other, tangling their legs together, squirming into position so that eventually Sherlock lay atop her, his mouth and hands pleasantly occupied with her breasts. She didn't even mind the droplets of water raining down from his dark curls; indeed, she was feeling more than warm enough as she surged up for another kiss.

The warmth seemed to be spreading outward from between her legs, and she reached down to stroke her hand down his erection. Yup, still there, hot and heavy and long and thick and oh _Christ_ if she didn't feel him inside her soon she was going to lose her fucking _mind_! "In me, God, Sherlock, inside me," she panted, widening her legs in invitation.

He grinned at her and teased his fingers along the sticky-wet seams of her sex. "Like this?" he asked innocently, plunging one finger inside her, knuckle-deep.

"Ohh no, I mean - yes, that's lovely, but…Sherlock you know what I mean!"

He was laughing at her again but she would chide him about proper sexual etiquette later. "Like this?" he asked again, this time - thank GOD! - raising his hips and easing the tip of his prick inside her.

"Yessss," she gasped out, ending on a low moan as he pushed, slowly but steadily, inside her. Once fully entrenched he paused, leaning up on his elbows in order to smile down at her. She pulled him down for a kiss, their tongues meeting in a sweet caress that swiftly devolved into a duel as she thrust her hips upwards.

He groaned against her lips, meeting her movements with his own until they were utterly lost in the motions and moment, thought suspended, the only sounds their grunts and groans and the rain spattering against the window, the creaking of the bed and the thundering of their hearts.

Molly felt her orgasm growing within minutes; she tried to hold off but it was impossible and she soon found herself gasping out her completion. Sherlock's expression was wild, his pupils blown and his mouth half-parted as he reached his own peak shortly thereafter. He gave a great shout as he tumbled over the edge into ecstasy, and Molly held him close as he pulsed inside her.

They slept in one another's arms for the rest of the night and well into the morning, when they awoke and made love again. Afterwards, Molly looked at him with a shy smile and said, "I don't know about you, but for me that was the…"

"Best. Case. EVER," he said along with her. He entwined his fingers with hers, looking down at the cheap wedding set he'd produced for the case. "I'll have Mum get Grandmother Vernet's rings from the safe deposit box. That is, if you're okay with us making it official?"

"More than okay," Molly assured him with a lingering kiss. Feeling something nudging against her hip, she added, "So, future husband, ready for round three?"

And indeed he was.


	33. No we shouldn't!

_anonymous on tumblr asked:_ _'Ripping the other away - " no we shouldn't " - but when they kiss them again they moan and hold them close' — sherlolly 😜_

 _Rated K+ for Kissing :)_

* * *

Sherlock pulled back, eyes wild. "No, Molly, we shouldn't…you need to let me finish…"

But her lips were on his again and all he could do was moan and hold her close, closer, closest.

He would wait to tell her that the flowers were actually for Mrs. Hudson's birthday later. Much, _much_ later.


	34. One Small Kiss

_anonymous on tumblr asked: "One small kiss, pulling away for an instant, then devouring each other" - sherlolly_

 _Rated K+ for Kissing :)_

* * *

The kiss was brief, hesitant, the first shared when both were clean and sober (well, Molly had always been clean and sober when they kissed excepting that one time in uni when she'd been epically smashed). They pulled back after a moment, eyes meeting eyes in an intense, unspoken conversation before they crashed back together, the kisses now greedy and devouring and possessive and oh, _everything_.

She would never kiss anyone else in such a manner.

She was the only one Sherlock would _ever_ kiss in such a manner.

And neither would have it any other way.


	35. If You Don't Want This

_elennemigo on tumblr asked: Pick a kiss + Sherlolly: when one person says "move away if you don't want this" and the other person moves in for the kiss. Thank you!_

 _Rated T. Hope you've all enjoyed these little nibblets!_

* * *

"Move away if you don't want this."

The movement is towards, not away; lips meet, eyes slam shut, one set of arms wrap around a slender waist while the other set land on broad, Belstaff-clad shoulders. Large hands slide up a jumper-clad back; small fingers tug curly hair and bring a moan from a long, eminently lickable throat. Urgency grows, bodies press tightly together, the kiss deepens, passion burns.

The outcome, Sherlock notes later as they lay naked and sated in one another's arms, was inevitable.

"From the moment those three little words were exchanged," Molly responds, and he kisses her again, no permission needed this time.


	36. Unexpected Kiss

_mel-loves-all asked:_ Pick a kiss - Sherlolly- "that thing where someone turns into an unexpected kiss, like there were turning around and the other person was just super close"

 _Rated K+_

* * *

"Sherlock, you can't just tell me to say 'I love you' and then just hang up the phone after I–mmmph!"

Molly's angry words were silenced by Sherlock's desperate kiss. She'd turned to face him finally and he'd been right there and the desperation in his eyes had been clear to see no matter how brief a time they'd met hers.

That brief look into his eyes, coupled with the kiss, told her so much more than that bewildering phone call had. She felt her anger dissipating - knowing it would return until she'd received a full explanation - but allowed herself to sink into the unexpected, amazing, tender, and obviously heartfelt kiss.


	37. Stardust

_A/N: This was a one word prompt from KendraPendragon ages ago. I had planned to expand this into a multi-chapter but instead it is this sort of choppy little thing. Hope you enjoy it, and thank you for all your lovely reviews of previous chapters. They are all very much appreciated._

* * *

The room was full of stardust. No, not the room, just her vision. She swayed on her feet and would have fallen had strong arms not caught her and lifted her up. She blinked and stared, inhaling sharply at the sight of the face that met her eyes. He was handsome, of that there was no doubt, with sharp cheekbones, lush lips and blue-green eyes with a catlike slant to them, a high forehead topped by a mass of dark brown curls. One eyebrow was quirked up. "So, where exactly did you come from, Miss…?" His voice trailed off in an obvious question.

"Um, Molly, Molly Hooper," she replied, somewhat breathlessly. Whether she was breathless from nearly passing out or from his presence, she wasn't entirely sure. "And you are…?"

"The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street," he replied crisply. She noted vaguely that he seemed to have no interest in returning her to feet, which was fine by her since she had no idea if she'd be able to stand on her own yet. "The year is 1886 and the city is London," he added. His eyes swept over her from head to toe before returning to her face. "Judging by the singular way in which you manifested in my flat, not to mention your style of clothing, I judge you are not necessarily from this era, even if your accent informs me that you are from England."

"Oh boy," Molly muttered as she took in the details that had escaped her before; the gaslight fixtures on the walls, the oil lamp by the antimacassar-covered table, the decided lack of anything modern in the room's decor…and the very Victorian clothing of the man still holding her as easily as if she was a child. "I hope you believe me, Mr. Holmes, but I have no idea how I got here. The last thing I remember is being in my own flat, here in London but in the year 2000."

His eyes crinkled with amusement. "So I gathered, Miss Hooper. It's a singular mystery you've brought to my doorstep - or rather, to my sitting room. I quite look forward to the solving of it."

"Good Lord, Holmes!"

They both turned at the sound of that flabbergasted voice, to see another man standing in the doorway, one hand on the doorknob and his blue eyes wide with shock. "Why on Earth…who in the world…" he sputtered, sounding utterly scandalized.

"Doctor John Watson, allow me to introduce Miss Molly Hooper, late of the 21st century…and our new client."

 **Two Years Later**

"Well, Holmes, I must say I never expected this particular outcome when Miss Hooper entered our lives," Watson commented as he watched his friend pacing and fretting in the front room.

"What, that I would one day encounter a woman so extraordinary that I would actually consider changing my bachelor status? Or do you refer to the fact that such a union would produce-"

He fell silent as the sound they'd been waiting for filtered into the front room. Holmes' pipe dropped to the carpet, and Watson stamped out the smouldering ashes before giving his friend a gentle push. "Go on, then, Holmes, your wife will surely want you by her side now."

Actually, Mrs. Holmes had wanted him by her side for the entire ordeal - scandalous! - but Holmes had been ejected from his own bedroom once it became clear he was making her more, rather than less, agitated. Watson smiled as Holmes stumbled forward like a man in a dream, his footsteps becoming more sure as he approached the closed door through which a baby's wails could still be heard.

Three months later he stood proudly as the godfather to Astrid Margaret Holmes, name for her mother and the stardust that had made up her first view of her life in a different century to which she'd been born.


	38. Broken Confused Raw

_A/N: mel-loves-all shared some good news and I asked her for a prompt to help celebrate. Special thanks to lilsherlockian1975 for looking it over (and inspiring the title by her comments). Even more special thanks to everyone reading and reviewing and following, you guys totally rock!_

 _TFP dialogue gratefully extracted from Ariane DeVere's transcript of the episode on livejournal. Rated K+ and rather angsty._

* * *

The storm breaks while she's waiting for someone to explain to her just what the hell that phone call was all about. She's tried calling him back (direct to voicemail), calling John (ditto) and even, in a moment of desperation, calling Mycroft - all to no avail. Mycroft's unflappable assistant had answered, explaining that Mr. Holmes was currently 'indisposed', that she had no idea where Sherlock and John were, and given a few not-so-subtle hints that she had better things to do than talk to Molly Hooper.

Answers of a sort are found when she finally thinks to call Mrs. Hudson. Molly is stunned to learn that Baker Street has been bombed, Mycroft has been hospitalized, and John and Sherlock have run off (presumably to find the bomber). Rosie, according to Sherlock's rather shaken landlady, is with the Stamford clan, so there's one worry sorted at least.

Molly's just had the shittiest of all shitty work days, and none of this is making her feel any better. She'd thought Sherlock's unsettling call to be the icing on the cake, but everything Mrs. Hudson's just told her...well, it's worse than she thought, no two ways about it.

It doesn't explain the phone call, but if someone's just blown up Baker Street - and if that someone wasn't Sherlock himself in a fit of pique - then perhaps it hadn't been one of his stupid, random games after all.

She tries to put it all behind her, tries to continue her evening routine but soon gives it up for a bad business. Her mind won't let her rest, but it won't let her concentrate on anything else except That Call.

She resorts to a glass of wine before bed, after another attempt at reaching someone - anyone - who might be able to explain things. She even considers calling Greg Lestrade, but with nothing more to go on than a disturbing phone call from Sherlock - who was, according to Mrs. Hudson, mostly unharmed after the blast that leveled his flat - she thinks better of the idea.

In the morning. If she doesn't hear anything by the morning, she'll call him. Then she puts on her most comfortable pair of pyjamas, gulps down her wine, feeds Toby, and crawls into bed.

Hours later - how many, she's not sure, as she refuses to look at either her too-silent mobile or the alarm clock on her bedside table - she gives it up as a lost cause. The rain is coming down in earnest now, usually a soothing sound, but now it grates on her nerves. She swings her legs over the side of the bed and shuffles into the kitchen. Maybe she'll actually be able to drink a cup of tea if she makes one now.

She hugs her arms to herself as she roams her kitchen, waiting for the electric kettle to boil, fretting over the meaning of That Call in the context of the new information she'd received from Mrs. Hudson. She replays both sides of that puzzling, upsetting conversation with Sherlock as best she can, but keeps coming back to the almost manic tone with which he was speaking at times.

 _Molly, I just want you to do something very easy for me, and not ask why._

 _Molly, no, please, no, don't hang up! Do_ not _hang up!_

 _You're my friend, we're friends._

She'd thought _stupid game_ during the call; she'd thought _back on drugs oh Sherlock please no_ after he'd hung up (or they'd been disconnected?) and now...now she doesn't know what to think.

 _Molly, please, without asking why, just say these words._

 _I. Love. You._

You _say it. Go on. You say it first. Say it like you mean it._

 _I..I..I love you._

 _I love you._

What the _hell_ does it all mean?

Lightning flashes, thunder rolls, and the sound of squealing tires all interrupt her roiling thoughts. She startles, turns toward her front door, takes a single step and stops.

She knows it's not just a passing motorist even before she hears the pounding at her door, the desperation in his voice as he shouts her name. "Molly! Molly, please, let me in!"

She unsticks her feet after a long moment, moves toward the door with dread in her heart but a curious calm in her mind. Her thoughts haven't just _settled_ , they've actually stopped, as if someone hit the pause button on a DVD player. She's moving on auto-pilot, heading for some kind of avoidable collision with the man she's finally confessed her feelings to. All she has to do is tell him to go away, leave her alone, let her try to sort herself out before he pushes himself back into the center of her universe, but she can't.

She opens the door.

He's there, leaning on the doorframe, one hand lifted as if to pound on the cheerful yellow painted wood. Their eyes meet, and he steps back into the downpour that's already drenched his curls and soaked his coat. Lowers his hand.

Straightens up and lets her look her fill.

She's no deductive genius but she knows the signs of strain - sees the lines around his eyes, the tightness of his lips, the tension in his form. She makes an inadvertent noise when she sees that his knuckles are bandaged; he silently offers them to her when she makes an abortive move to reach for them. "What happened?" she finally asks, looking up once again to meet his gaze.

"I smashed the coffin she made for you."

Molly stares at him blankly; his words make no sense. "What coffin? Who's 'she'?"

"My sister, the one I forgot - deleted," he corrects himself. "She said there were explosives in your flat. There aren't, but she said - and you had to say the words. So I made you. I'm sorry. It's not how it should have happened."

He's still not making much sense, and refuses when she tries to pull him into her flat. "Sherlock, you're soaking wet, you've been injured and you're not making any sense. Come inside."

He shakes his head, his eyes wild and hands shaking as he pulls them out of her gentle grasp. "I can't. Not after I...I know you hate me right now and I don't blame you. I should have called as soon as Lestrade came but I wanted to tell you to your face." His expression intensifies, sharpens, and Molly catches her breath, one hand to her chest as he repeats the words he said to her earlier. "You're not an experiment. You're my friend, we're friends - at least we were, if Eurus...if _I_ haven't ruined that. That's the truth, even if it's not plain and simple, and it was also true when I said it."

She shakes her head, takes a step back, but he pins her with his gaze as he says softly, "I love you, Molly. I said it like I meant it, just like you asked - demanded - that I do. And the only reason I could do that was because I _did_ mean it. I love you."

He lets out a shuddering sigh; lighting flashes, illuminating the sharp planes and angles of his face, the vulnerable curve of his lips, the naked truth in his quicksilver eyes. "That's all. I just needed to tell you that I wasn't lying, and that I'm sorry, and…"

She can't stand it a moment longer; with a small cry she rushes into his arms, uncaring of the downpour that now soaks her to the bone. She wraps her arms around his neck, tugging him down, looking up at him as he stares down at her in alarm and confusion - but his arms are holding her close and he's waiting patiently for her to do or say something. "You meant it," she breathes, studying his face as intently as she'd ever studied a slide under a microscope.

"I did," he says quietly. His hands slide up her back. "I do. I love you, Molly Hooper."

"Good," she says, and pulls him down for a gentle kiss.

Gentleness quickly gives way to urgency; his fingers dig into her shoulders, the back of her head; she tugs at his sopping wet curls and presses herself closer to him and he kisses her with a fierce desperation that matches her own. When the kiss ends he presses his forehead against hers, breathing heavily. His eyes close and she can see how exhausted he is. "Come inside, Sherlock," she says, and this time he nods. Wraps his arm around her shoulder. Allows her to bring him inside as the rain slows and the storm finally passes.

Inside there is tea and warmth and the serenity of knowing that two wounded hearts are finally on the mend.

 _Molly,_ please.

 _I love you._


	39. Nurturing Life

_A/N: This light T rated fic was inspired by this tumblr post by mollyandherjumper (now fettuccine_alfreylo): a little detail about molly's flat that makes me smile: the windowsill in the kitchen is practically bursting with plants. so much green. idk, there's something so poignant and sweet about a woman who deals with death on a daily basis nurturing life as well_

* * *

Death doesn't bother her. If it did, she'd quickly find herself out of a job, after all. No, being surrounded by death, day in and day out, doesn't bother her.

Not at work, anyway.

At home, however, that's a different story. At home she wants to remember that there's more to her world than just the end results of old age and violence and accidents and the thousand other ways to leave the mortal plane behind.

At home, she has plants. She has Toby and for a while she even had a fiancé and a dog. At least the two of them didn't leave feet first, she snickers when she's feeling particularly morbid.

She knows one day that Toby will be gone. That she will, too - she, and John and Sherlock and Rosie…

But she nips such morbid thoughts in the bud. Live in the moment, that's her at-home motto.

And in this particular moment, she's waging grim war against death, which has attempted to invade her sanctuary in the form of some kind of fungal infestation of her hydrangeas.

Not today, she thinks grimly as she applies the internet-approved (or at least, recommended) solution to the potted plant.

A week later, Sherlock comments on how healthy her plants are looking. She smiles as he comes up behind her, presses a kiss to her cheek, reaches out to finger the glossy green leaves, squeezes her hip and moves to put the kettle on.

"It's love," she pipes up, knowing he'll give her a confused look.

He does exactly that, brow scrunched, ridiculously adorable nose-wrinkle in place, eyes squinting at her doubtfully. "Really?"

"Nah," she replies with a giggle. "Just an extra dose of plant food and some all-natural fungicide."

He grins at her. Gone are the days when he would advise her that humor wasn't her area. Instead, he's as much a work in progress as any of her plants - still recovering from the events at Sherrinford, slowly but surely blooming into someone new - and yet, at the core, still very much Sherlock Holmes.

And that's just the way she likes - no, she reminds herself with a fond grin as he prepares two cups of tea - that's just how she _loves_ him.

* * *

 _End note: Thank you everyone for reading, and especially for your reviews. They mean the world to me._


	40. The Best Feeling In The World

_Prompt of the day - 9/11/18 by holidaysat221b:_ _The best feeling in the world is kissing someone for the first time when you've really wanted to kiss them for a long time. (No credit given) - noregretsnotearsnoanxieties_

 _A/N: Rated K+ and waaaay different than when I first started writing it (let's just say Eurus made an on-paper appearance). Enjoy, and thank you as ever for your kind reviews._

* * *

"Eight years."

"Eight years, six months and three days to the minute."

Molly arched an eyebrow, pulling back a bit so she could study Sherlock's face. "To the minute? Really?"

"Yup," he replied, not even popping the P like he usually did. "To the exact minute."

"So essentially you've wanted to kiss me as long as I've wanted to kiss you."

"Indeed." Sherlock smiled warmly. "Well worth the wait, I might add, if it wasn't for the fact that I wasted every minute of every date of those eight plus years NOT kissing you."

Molly giggled and wound her arms around his neck. "Don't be daft. If you'd been kissing me all that time you'd never have had John as a flatmate and all your famous adventures would be forever unchronicled, forgotten by anyone but you and whoever it was you'd saved."

"And you," he pointed out with a small pout. "It might have been worth not having John as a flatmate if you and I had been living together all this time instead. And with that in mind…" He took a deep breath, reached into his jacket pocket, and pulled out a small, velvet-covered box."Would you do me the honor of letting me move in with you, Molly Hooper? Because 221B really is best kept as a work space, wouldn't you agree?'

"Absolutely," she replied, holding out her left hand and gasping as she saw the ring Sherlock had chosen for her. It was perfect; a deep blue sapphire set with two smaller, pink sapphires on either side. Not only was it a perfect look, it was a perfect fit as well. It slid into place as if it had always belonged there.

Just as their lips, their bodies seemed to fit together so beautifully as she kissed him again.

It was the best feeling in the world.


	41. Never Mine

_Sitting here and pondering/_ _All the could've, should've and would've been/_ _How can something so close, within my reach/_ _Just slip away…_

 _(_ You Were Never Mine _by Lizelle 'Leasel' Martins)_

* * *

She was posing for a photo with _Tom_. Tom the perfect, with his pub friends and Sunday family dinners and dog.

Tom the 'still not a psychopath.'

Tom the bloody wanker who'd swooped in while Molly was lost and vulnerable and taken advantage of her kind nature and…

 _No. Stop. Sentiment is clouding your judgement,_ a voice very much like Mycroft's sounded in his mind. _You're the only wanker who's ever taken advantage of her kind nature - well, you and a certain dead-for-real psychopath whose name you NEVER want to associate with hers ever again, why didn't you just delete the fact that he and Molly had gone on three dates and that Dear Jim had probably stolen a kiss or three from her on at least two of the dates, possibly more…_

 _Stop,_ the internal Mycroft ordered him again, this time far more forcefully. _Think, Sherlock. Think very carefully about what you are admitting to. Do you actually want to go down that road? Now that it's too late for you to do anything about it?_

"No," he muttered aloud as he finished crossing the room, earning a curious look from the few people close enough to hear him. He resolutely turned his eyes away from Molly and _Tom_ , focusing instead on Mary's bridesmaid, Janine.

Janine Hawkins, PA to one Charles Augustus Magnussen, who had been brought to his attention by Lady Alicia - or was it Elizabeth, he couldn't be bothered to remember - Smallwood.

 _Focus on the work, Sherlock,_ he admonished himself. _Deal with the blackmailer, then move on to the next case. It's always stood you in good stead in the past._

But as he heard Molly giggling at something _Tom_ said to her, his traitorous heart whispered, _And not on the fact that you've lost the one thing you never realized you truly wanted until it was too late._

* * *

 _A/N: Inspired by a tumblr gif set showing Sherlock in the way background as Molly and Tom pose for a photo at John and Mary's wedding. Hope you enjoyed this bit of angsty Sherlock, and thank you as always for all your wonderful reviews!_


	42. Witchy Woman

_A/N: This TOTALLY M RATED story was inspired by some fantastic incubus/witch artwork done for Inktober '18 by noisymouse over on tumblr. You should totally check it out; just go to her tumblr or to my AO3 page and follow the link._

* * *

He felt the slightest tug on his soul, a gentle feeling that would soon become a demand he would be unable to ignore. A command pulling him from _here_ to _there_ , a chance to be free of this eternal boredom, to once again put his considerable talents to use.

To exercise his body, yes, but more importantly - his mind. There was always a puzzle to work out when he was summoned to seduce some hapless mortal. A problem to be solved.

A summoner, in short, to be outsmarted.

"Yesss," he sighed out in a hiss, unfurling his wings and raising his arms in anticipation.

As he felt the tug become an irresistible pull, his demonic essence unraveling itself for the journey to the human plane, the incubus named Sherlock smiled.

 **oOo**

He materialized in a dark room, in the precise center of the expected pentagram, drawn in chalk and encircled with mingled layers of sea and - he sniffed, let his long, forked tongue slither out to taste the air - Himalayan salt, an unusual but potent combination. His estimation of whoever had summoned him rose fractionally, as did his interest. "Who calls me?" he demanded, taking in what details he could despite the muffling confines of his mystical prison. The room was dark, but the echoes of his voice told him it was, indeed, a room, one with walls of stone to match the floor upon which he stood. No windows, and a certain damp chill that spoke more of underground than above.

A cellar then, or possibly a cave. His respect for his mysterious summoner rose another notch; when bringing forth a demon, it was always safest - for the mortal, that is - to be surrounded by flameproof material. Even a _libidine_ like himself could summon enough hellfire to immolate an enemy or two...hundred.

Speaking of...he allowed a small flame to form between his fingers, and was rewarded by his first sight of the one who had called him forth.

She was small, was his first thought. Tiny in form and figure, with enormous brown eyes above her upturned, pixiesh nose. Some Fae blood ran through her veins, he'd never been more certain of anything in his immortal life.

But then, that was true of the best sorcerers.

His lips curled in a lazy smile as she lit a single candle with a gesture, bringing herself more clearly into his view. She lounged on a throne-like chair, a grimoire resting on one stone arm. She closed it and stood, murmuring a spell that enclosed both the candle and spell-book within a globe of protective energy. Pricking the tip of one finger with a needle pulled from one voluminous black sleeve, she allowed three drops to fall onto the globe, sizzling and vanishing from sight.

Thus ensuring that only her living blood would be able to banish the spell. A wise woman, indeed.

Oh, this was going to be _interesting_.

"Wise precautions," was all he said aloud. With a thought he banished the small spark he'd summoned, then continued to study her.

A black, pointed hat rested above her tumble of chestnut tresses, the traditional headwear of witches, as was the long black robe she wore. The sleeves swept down from her wrists, nearly touching the floor and covering the backs of her small hands. Her legs were bare; as she uncrossed them and rose to her (small, bare) feet, the movement revealed glimpses of the pale flesh of her shapely thighs. So, not as much of a traditionalist as she first appeared.

Good.

She stopped just outside of the circle of salt, one toe tantalizingly close to the mingled white and pale pink grains. The slightest movement and she would break the circle, and if she had not obtained his bonding word first...allow him to do whatever he wished.

He could kill her easily, he mused, studying the slender neck. Ravish her in the most painful and humiliating way possible.

Or leave, wander the world and wreak whatever havoc he chose...visit the many places to which he'd never been summoned yet had an immense curiosity about. Study the fall of ash from pipes and see if it was truly possible to divine the origins of the tobacco used by the smoker.

So many possibilities, all held suspended as he waited to see if she would make that small, careless move and thus seal her fate. But as he studied her (warm, Earth-brown) eyes, his own narrowed in speculation, and his lips curled in a dark smile at what he read there.

"So, Witch," he said, stretching his arms lazily above his head, making sure to arch his back in order to emphasize his considerable endowments, "who is it you wish me to seduce?"

As if that question wasn't immediately obvious. Still, he wished to hear it from her (small but shapely) lips.

Taking a deep breath, she reached for the ties of her belt, undoing them, allowing the slim bit of leather to drop to the floor safely behind her. Then she pulled open her robes, sliding them down her shoulders, down her arms, letting them fall in a black puddle around her dainty white feet, without so much as dislodging a single grain of salt. Impressive. "Me."

He smiled, a slow, feral smile that showed a glimpse of his gleaming fangs. "Well then," he purred, "what are the terms of our agreement?"

"One night of pleasure for us both, and freedom from the boredom of the Hell plane for you," she replied promptly, her business-like tone belied by the shining heat of her eyes as she kept them up to meet his. "I pledge not to banish you before dawn breaks unless you attempt to cheat me." She gestured to the bespelled candle flame. "Should you do so, a single thought will break the bubble of protection I've cast, and send you back from whence you came."

His gaze turned admiring; her precautions were flawless, clever and, in his experience, quite unique. Oh how she continued to surprise and delight him! He'd not admired a mortal this much in decades, or had it been centuries?

No matter. "Agreed," he said promptly, then used one claw to prick the tip of his forefinger. He allowed three drops of blood to fall onto the floor, and the bargain was sealed. Then, looking pointedly down at the protective circle still trapping him, he added, "Shall we begin?"

With a flirtatious smile, she moved her foot forward just enough to disturb the circle of salt, scattering pink and white grains so that they mingled with his blood.

And so the protective circle was broken.

He wasted no time in retracting his claws and morphing his fangs into a set of even white teeth, but didn't bother to change any other aspect of his physical form; something told him his lovely little witch wouldn't mind a bit if he left the curling horns on his head, or used his tail to tease and enfold her, or be put off even the slightest bit by his vestigial wings (useless for actual flying but he despised flying as inefficient, much faster to apport between locations).

And so it proved, as he pulled her into his arms, winding his tail round her thigh and teasing her quinny with its (now blunted) tip. She gasped and pressed herself against his lean form, trapping his erection between them, tilting her lips up to his in obvious invitation.

He quickly lowered his head and captured her mouth in a kiss, hard and demanding as he sensed no need for softness with his soon-to-be paramour. And so it proved; she returned the kiss with equal passion, her lips parting eagerly beneath his, her tongue twining against his as he invaded her hot little mouth.

Her hands, so small yet surprisingly strong, crept up his chest and shoulders, pausing briefly to glide through his dark curls before sliding up to caress his dark red horns. He groaned and gripped her thigh, hoisting it up to rest against his hip as he ground himself against her. He slid his tail provocatively against her moist center before easing it away in order to wrap it around her small waist.

He groaned against her lips as she continued to stroke his horns - no, wait, just the left one, the most sensitive of the pair. A fortunate accident, surely? But when he pulled back to study her face, he discerned the truth. "You summoned me specifically. You _know_ me. How?" he demanded, his curiosity as fully aroused as were his loins.

"I've studied your kind for many years," she replied, seemingly unperturbed at this interruption of their carnal activities. "Cataloging you, noting your preferences, your idiosyncrasies, your habits...demons are fascinating," she added, eyes shining with what he recognized as passion of a different sort than what she had summoned him for. Passion for knowledge, for understanding.

A passion he could appreciate, as it well complemented his own.

She continued stroking the sensitive horn, trailing the fingers of her other hand down the nape of his neck to the arch of his leathery wings. "And once I'd finished my research, I chose _you_ Sherlock Homerus, _libidine_ , Incubus, cleverest and most...talented...of all your brethren," she breathed, reaching down to stroke the length of his erection in a most enticing manner. "When I decided to find a worthy being to share my bed, I knew only the best would do."

"Surely a human lover would be...safer?" he suggested, taking her earlobe between his lips and nipping at it teasingly.

"Safe," she scoffed. "I've had safe. Safe is boring, don't you think?" She met his gaze again and smiled a wicked, wanton smile. "Why settle for _safe_ when you can have...exciting?"

Dangerous, she meant. And oh, she was dangerous herself; so tiny, so harmless she appeared at first glance, that he could well believe the unobservant would dismiss her as such.

He, however, was no such fool. He captured her lips in another kiss, sliding his hand down to cup the cheeks of her arse, flicking the area between with the tip of his tail as he untwined it from her waist. "Why indeed," he said, then summoned a sumptuous pile of furs atop which they might lie together.

His opinion of his witch grew as she murmured a spell of protection against fire that covered not only the furs but her discarded clothing. Her choice in paramours might be the very definition of dangerous, but the spell she'd cast demonstrated her practical nature as clear as the cursed daylight that would eventually cover the land.

She lay beneath him, her clever fingers doing some truly interesting things as he settled himself above her, but he quickly set about demonstrating to her why she'd been right to choose him, covering her throat and milky white breast with dark love-bites. He was careful not to break the skin, but that was the only way in which he restrained himself.

Before he could continue his oh-so-fascinating journey down her body, she surprised him yet again by flipping them so that she rested above him. Kneeling up, she gazed down at him with a look of purest lust in her eyes. Pausing only to press a brief kiss against his lips, she slithered out of his grasp and knelt between his legs, taking his heavy cock in her hands. Gripping him tightly, she gave him a playful smile, then bent down and sucked the tip of his member between her lips.

Sherlock's head arched and a startled gasp escaped his lips. Never in his immortal life had a woman - or man, for that matter - done such a thing for him. Always _he_ was the seducer, the giver of pleasure (and many times pain both wanted and unwanted). For someone to do this - for _her_ to do this - for him was, simply put, beyond his experience.

He bit back on further groans, desperately attempting to access his _memoriae regis_ in order to focus this thoughts and keep from embarrassing himself by spilling into her mouth. Perhaps it wasn't Fae blood he sensed in her, but rather that of a Succubus?

No. His instincts, his senses, and more importantly, his mind all told him his first assessment was the true one. She was simply ( _imply?_ his mind suggested with what felt suspiciously like a chortle, despite his dislike of such childish word-play) a woman who knew well how to please a man - and had chosen thusly to please him.

However, he would be no true _libidine_ were he to allow her to continue her efforts without demonstrating that he, too, could bring pleasure with more than just his considerable endowments. So after only a few (glorious, sublime) minutes, he eased his tail beneath her chin, pressing lightly until she finally lifted her head from his cock. "Problem?" she asked, although her dark smile told him she knew the truth.

"You are full of delightful surprises, my dear witch," he replied, not bothering to hide the naked lust in his eyes. "However," he added, lowering his smooth baritone into the deep, velvety register that never failed to affect his partners, "you didn't summon me here that you might pleasure me...but that _I_ might pleasure _you_."

With those words he sat up, pulling her to him for a lingering kiss before lying her back on the soft furs he'd summoned. After another kiss they were both reluctant to break, he slid sinuously down her soft white form, peppering her belly and thighs with kisses and more love-bites, enjoying every gasp and whimper of pleasure/pain he pulled from her lips. He wasted no time in pressing his mouth to her sex, already slick with her musky feminine essence, a flavor which he would never tire of.

He flicked his tongue against her, tasting and breathing her in, enjoying the shivers his delicate touch evoked. Soon he had her begging for release, but refused to speed his movements until he heard her desperately calling his name. Only then did he raise his head up so that his gaze caught hers. "First you must grant me a boon."

"What?" she gasped out.

"Your name. Share it with me?"

He worded the request quite deliberately, not wanting her to see it as a demand or an attempt to gain power over her. He asked only for the name anyone might call her by, and was pleasantly surprised when she offered it to him without the slightest hesitation. "Molly," she sighed. "Molly the Hooper's daughter."

"Molly," he murmured, savoring the feel and taste of it in his mouth as if were a delicious treat. As, indeed, it was, albeit not so delicious as the taste of her flesh. With that thought he returned to his ministrations, finally laving his tongue over her hidden pearl, teasing it into fully exposing itself and dancing along it with soft strokes until finally his witch cried out his name in cresting pleasure.

He gave her no time to recover herself, settling his body once again over hers and pressing his overheated flesh against the seam of her sex. She opened her legs for him willingly - nay, eagerly, wrapping her arms round his shoulders, her fingers ghosting along upper edge of the leathery membrane of his wings before sliding up to tangle in his hair. "Love me, Sherlock," she gasped as he eased his length inside her.

"It will be my pleasure," he purred, thrusting himself deep, deep within her. His tail stroked along her calves and thighs, then twined itself round her ankles as she wrapped her legs around his waist, binding her in place.

Were he of a mind to betray her, a single stab of the razor-sharp tip of that appendage would be all it would take; the venom acted so quickly that even a witch as clever and careful as she, with all her precautions, would be unable to summon the mental will to set off the protections she'd set in place before succumbing to death. But he had no desire to test her in such a permanent manner; even as he thrust and grunted while deep inside her, he knew the realm of the mortals would be a far less interesting place without her in it.

And so he kept the wicked point retracted, and returned his focus to bringing her once again to the peak of pleasure.

He could feel her clenching around his cock, heard her murmuring delirious love-words in his ear, knew she was nearly there and prepared to prolong his own pleasure during her _orgasmus_ when the unexpected happened: her even white teeth bit hard against his throat, drawing blood and startling a roar out of him as he felt the hot gush of his seed pumping out of his cock and filling her womb.

Only then, he realized dimly as he shuddered through the final seconds of his release, did she too reach her peak.

Once again, his witch ( _his?_ ) had surprised and delighted him.

As he lay panting above her, resting on his elbows and staring down at her in wonder and the slightest bit of alarm, she smiled dreamily and reached up to stroke his sweat-dampened curls from his brow. "Now that," she purred, "was well worth the risks. I can only hope the rest of the night will pass in equal pleasure for us both."

"Damned right it will," Sherlock mumbled before covering his mouth with his own.

A demon he might be, created for evil, but tonight his sole aim was to prove himself anything but a liar.

* * *

 _End note: Thank you as always for reading my silly fics. Your reviews make my day and it makes me happy to know so many folks read my stuff._


	43. 93 - The One Where John Asks Molly Out

_The prompt (for a collection of Groundhog Day style fics about John Watson falling asleep after Sherrinford and waking up back in his bed-sit from ASiP, the collection being available on AO3 and moderated by the wonderful Quarto): 93. ""So… Molly, I know we've only just met. But you're… gorgeous. And I'd love to take you to dinner some night," John smiled, putting all his (not-inconsiderable) charms into it._

 _Molly blushed, and stammered, and agreed. Sherlock went chalk white with little bright-pink spots._

 _It all worked out in the end. And the black eye was totally worth it for true love._

 _(Thus was born this K+ rated story.)_

* * *

"So… Molly, I know we've only just met. But you're…gorgeous. And I'd love to take you to dinner some night." John smiled, putting all his (not-inconsiderable) charms into the request.

Molly blushed, and stammered, and agreed. Sherlock went chalk white with little bright-pink spots coloring his ridiculously high cheekbones, thus answering a question John had been considering off and on ever since Sherrinford: how long, exactly, had Sherlock been in love with Molly?

Well. Maybe not in love yet, but certainly very unhappy about John poaching in his territory, unclaimed though it was destined to be for the next seven years, give or take.

Not if John Hamish Watson had anything to say about it. Maybe this was the reason for it all? Maybe it wasn't his own life he was supposed to fix ( _if there was a goal at all, if this all wasn't some sort of cosmic joke or his own personal version of hell_ ) but that of his arse-of-a-best-friend.

So he continued to smile and flirt with Molly, remembering a certain day in a (possible) future where Molly introduced her new boyfriend to Sherlock...and he reacted like a jealous git.

Didn't help that that said boyfriend turned out to be an evil criminal mastermind just using Molly to test Sherlock, but still. His reaction before he knew who the man actually was spoke volumes to a John Watson who'd seen that same day play out more than once.

At least he'd managed to avoid the semtex a time or two, but the time he'd allowed himself to be blown up also had its merits.

Not that he planned to ever ever do that again. Nope, once was enough.

And maybe dating Molly once would be enough, or maybe Sherlock wouldn't get his head out of his arse after all, and the future would include the children of John and Molly Watson and Uncle Sherlock sulking in the background and-

"What?"

"I said, stop bothering Molly, John, we have more important things to deal with than your overactive libido," Sherlock repeated, not looking either of them in the eyes as he spoke. "She's only saying yes to be nice, that should be obvious to even someone as egotistical as yourself-"

"You're a fine one to talk!" John shot back, more amused than insulted at this point. Especially since it appeared he was right about Sherlock's feelings for Molly.

"I'm not just being nice!" Molly broke in indignantly. "I just- I would love to go to dinner sometime John. I'm free tonight, as a matter of fact!" And she very pointedly did not look at Sherlock as she spoke, although her own cheeks were even pinker than his.

"Great!" John enthused. "I know this wonderful little Italian place, I think the owner was almost arrested for a double murder but it turned out he was across town stealing a car at the time. Maybe he'll tell us about it if we-"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he literally pushed his way between the two of them. "How do you know that?" he demanded as he glared at John. "You've just got back from Afghanistan, haven't been in London more than three months and aren't the type to read old news stories unless they directly pertain to either the war or medicine."

John gave him his best inscrutable look. "There's a lot you don't know about me, Sherlock," he said. "But you'll find out after we become flat-mates." He turned his attention back to Molly, who was glancing at Sherlock with a concerned look in her eyes. "Anyway, dinner. Tonight, 8pm, meet me there?" He gave her the address with an apologetic, "Sorry, I don't have my own transportation at the moment."

Then, greatly daring, he leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek.

The punch came out of nowhere; Molly yelled, John grunted, and Sherlock snarled something that sounded almost like "don't touch my pathologist" although John couldn't swear to it. Then, as he leaned up on his elbows, he was gratified to see Sherlock kissing Molly, holding her head in those enormous, spatulate paws of his, while she snogged him back with equal enthusiasm.

The black eye was totally worth it for true love.

John made it all the way to their wedding - with Sarah Sawyer as his Plus One and Greg Lestrade as Best Man - before once again waking up in the bedsit.

Bugger. He really had hoped playing Cupid would do it this time.


	44. By the Light of the Moon

_Annabellioncourt on tumblr said: There's a lovely old English myth that if someone who truely loved and trusted the werewolf called it by name that it would turn back to human._

 _Others include throwing their human clothes at it and it'd turn back but that's a bit less romantic_

 _This is my response to that prompt. Rated K+ for mentions of killing._

* * *

They tell her she's crazy, that he'll kill her and think nothing of it while trapped in the form and mind of a wolf.

They tell her her death will be meaningless; that even though he'll (possibly) mourn her death at his teeth and claws once he's human again (if he survives the night's hunt, the guns and knives, the savage pack of hunting hounds bred for just such prey), it won't change anything. He'll still be under the curse, but now with the taste of human blood in his fangs and thus even more dangerous.

But she stands fast, refusing to give into the fear and panic of the villagers. She implores Sir Mycroft for this one chance, this one opportunity to break the curse. He's a man of learning; surely he'll allow sentiment, just this once, just to try and save his only brother's life. Surely he'll listen to her, and allow her show him the evidence she's collected, in the old tales, in the whispered legends and myths of their land.

To the dismay and astonishment of the local sheriff, Gregory Lestrade, not only does Sir Mycroft listen, but he agrees to allow her the attempt. He even gives her a set of his brother's clothes to throw over his wolf-form, as another possible way to turn him back to human - a legend so obscure she'd overlooked it in her own desperate research.

But when the sheriff bravely offers to accompany her on her lone quest, Sir Mycroft and Molly both refuse him. "I'll not risk another life at a task that can be easily carried out by one person," he says in that firm, irrefusable way he has of speaking. He's always been far less approachable than his tempestuous, impulsive younger brother, as sturdy and unscalable as the walls of the centuries-old keep that is their family stronghold.

Lestrade continues to argue but Molly no longer listens. Heart beating fast, she carefully hugs the clothing she's been given to her chest, and retreats back to her small cottage on the edge of the forest into which Sir Mycroft's brother had vanished only hours before.

She hesitates before changing from her plain, workaday clothing into the one truly valuable gown she owns. She will be more easily seen in the moonlight wearing white, she reasons, difficult to mistake even in the darkness between the trees.

And it's not only the man she loves that she fears for; she'd recognized the look in Lestrade's eyes, and knew that she would not be entering the forest alone. That he and some of his finest trackers would slip in behind her, no matter what Sir Mycroft might command.

 _Indeed,_ she thinks as she pulls the whisper-thin gown over her head and tugs it awkwardly into place, _he might very well be instructing him to do so now that I'm out of their hearing._

Well. Of such is the case, there's nothing she can do about it.

Picking up his clothing once again, she takes a deep breath, tries to slow the frantic beating of her heart, and heads for the door of her cottage.

Time to see if her research - and her feelings - are as true as she believes them to be.

 **oOo**

She enters the dark forest, her feet bare (the better to leave a scent trail for him to follow, although she doubts he'll need it), his clothing held tight to her chest. It's a warm summer night but there's still a slight chill in the air. Or is it an inner chill that raises goosebumps on her arms?

She's frightened, of course she's frightened, but more for him than for herself. If this doesn't work, if the curse can't be broken, then his life is forfeit. Even though he's not killed anyone, the threat is real: the sharp, clever mind of the man has been consumed by that of the savage beast he's become, and she hopes - oh how she hopes! - that her love, unrequited though it might forever be, will be enough to save him.

That, or the clothes she holds, she thinks with an attempt at humor. She only hopes she'll have time to throw them over his body before he tears her throat out, if her first attempt fails.

She reaches a clearing, one as familiar to her as her own home. She pauses in a shaft of moonlight as she studies the shadowy outlines of the great oak trees that surround her, remembering days spent picking wildflowers and identifying mushrooms with her father before his death. A touch of melancholy threatens to overcome her, but she resolutely sets it aside: this is no time to become lost in memories.

The truth of that thought is instantly proven as she feels every hair on her body rise up in response to something yet unseen, unheard. She holds still, moving only her eyes as she seeks out...there. In the darkness between the two largest oaks, across the clearing, she sees it. Him.

The wolf.

He pads out of the darkness, teeth bared in a snarl, a low growl sounding deep in his throat as he approaches, moving with slow deliberation. His fur appears to be black, but she thinks she sees streaks of reddish-brown; his eyes are golden orbs fixed on her with no sign of humanity in them.

She is in mortal danger no matter how slowly he approaches; should she attempt to turn, to run, he will be on her in an instant. So she remains still, heart pounding in her chest, and waits.

He stops only a few yards away, his eyes still fixed on hers, but his ears are pricked and she thinks that means he's curious. Certainly not the savage, out-of-control beast she'd been expecting to see. Slowly, carefully, she extends her hand, allows the clothing to drop to the ground at her feet.

He raises his snout, sniffing the air, letting out another low growl that turns to a questioning whine, or so it sounds to her ears. Even more carefully she extends her hand to him, holds it out entreatingly, and whispers his name.

Slowly, hesitantly, he inches forward, step by agonizingly slow step. She remains motionless but for the wind in her hair and her ragged breathing and the slight trembling of her outstretched hand.

He stops. Gazes up at her through the golden eyes of the wolf, but she sees the human heart behind them.

She smiles. Stretches her hand closer.

He raises a forepaw. Shuffles closer. Extends the paw closer.

And it is a human hand she grasps in her own.

She drops to her knees, trembling with relief as she meets the blue-green gaze of the man she's loved for so long.

"Sherlock," she whispers.

"Molly," he replies in a hoarse whisper of his own. With trembling fingers he reaches up, brushes the hair from her face. "My Molly."

Her love has not only saved him, but brought forth the love he held hidden so deeply in his heart even he hadn't recognized it for what it was.

Love for her, the moonlight to his darkness, always.

* * *

 _End note: Thank you as always for reading and reviewing. I appreciate it more than you can imagine._


	45. Pixelated

_stark-raving-hazelnut asked: I know I already sent you an ask but I'm bored too so here it goes. Drunkfic request: After work drinks. Smut or not smut. Up to you._

 _A/N: I wasn't entirely happy with the story I wrote on tumblr so this is me trying to make this T rated, canon divergent (Mary's alive, yay!) PTFP fic better. Hopefully I've done so._

* * *

"And then I told him to sod off because what kind of arsehole does something like that?"

Molly slurped down the last of her mai-tai and slammed the glass on the bar triumphantly. "What do you think about that, Mary? Was I right or what?"

Mary glanced over at the arshehole in question, who had silently walked up to their table. "Yeah, well, maybe we should talk about this another time, Molls?"

Molly ignored her and continued, "Dammit he just _had_ to make me say it, tell him I loved him! Did I tell you that, Mare?"

"You did," Mary replied, her voice soothing. "But Molly, right now I think-"

"I think you've had enough to drink, Molly."

 _Oh, brilliant, Sherlock,_ Mary thought as Molly stared belligerently at him. _Antagonize the drunk lady, excellent tactics._

Then again, considering what happened in the next several minutes, maybe he wasn't as much of an idiot as she thought he was.

Molly slowly rose to her feet, wobbling only the teensiest bit as she continued to glower at Sherlock. Raising one hand to chest level, she slowly extended her pointer finger, then proceeded to jab him in the chest with it after every sentence she spoke. "I'm a grown-ass woman, Sherlock Holmes," she proclaimed. _Poke._ "I decide when I've had enough to drink." _Poke._ "Not you, not Mary, not anyone in this goddammed bar." _Poke._ "Except the bartender, and he's my friend so that's ok."

Sherlock glowered right back at her, the two of them ignoring Mary as she continued to watch from her seat across the small table, her red wine forgotten in the moment. "So Mary's not your friend? I'm not your friend?"

Molly's scowl deepened. "Course you're my friends!" she declared, although came out more like 'frenzzzz' to Mary's ears. "Buuut," she added quickly, "it still wasn't nice to make me do that, Sherlock. Evil sister or no evil sister. You shoulda, I dunno, just asked me what my last words to my dad were before he died. Unless you deleted what I told you."

With that last sentence, she went from belligerent to morose, causing Mary to make an abortive move to reach out and rest her hand on her friend's arm in a gesture of sympathy and comfort.

'Abortive' only because Sherlock beat her to the punch.

Both women's eyes were drawn to the battered and bruised condition of his knuckles. "She had a coffin, Molly," Sherlock said, his eyes on hers, his gaze so intense Mary felt compelled to look away. To stealthily draw her handbag up from under her chair and ease into her coat. "It had those words on it - and even though Mycroft said it was for someone who loved me, I realized after I made you say them that it was about how I felt all along. And the thought of you in a coffin…" He took a shuddering breath as Mary pushed her chair back and rose to her feet. "I smashed it," he confessed quietly.

Mary had already figured that much out, and would have some words with John about him skipping over that part of his explanation of that harrowing 24-hours! But this conversation was growing more and more 'A' and 'B'; definitely time to 'C' herself out.

"Well, time to get home to John and Rosie!" she said loudly. "Thanks for a lovely evening out, Molly, bye!"

The last words she heard as she hurried away from the table were Sherlock's quiet, "I meant it. I wasn't just saying it because you told me to" and Molly's equally soft, "You meant it?"

When she reached the pub door, she paused and looked back, smiling to herself as she saw Sherlock and Molly locked in a warm embrace.

Oh, wouldn't John be shocked by that - him and his 'Sherlock only said it to save her life, he's in love with Irene Adler' interpretation of things!


	46. Everything You Think I Am and Then Some

_A/N: Another entry for Sherlolly Appreciation Week (SAW 2019). Semi-swaplocky in that Sherlock is desperately trying to get Molly to realize he's asking her out, and she's snarky and oblivious. Much obliged to Broomclosetkink for brainstorming and the hair gel line (you'll see). Rated T for some naughty language and Sherlock's dirty mind. Enjoy!_

* * *

"Molly!"

Sherlock paused dramatically in the door to her small office, coat flaring and settling around his legs as he observed her at work. Scribbling away ( _paper and pencil, so low tech but she preferred her rough draughts to be done the old fashioned way and he preferred not to have his head bitten off so refrained from commenting_ ), head down, lips pursed in concentration, her free hand waving in a vague 'hold on' gesture.

"Molly," he whined, but she continued to ignore him. Just like always. No matter how hard he tried, she just wouldn't pay attention to him, at least not the way he wanted her to.

Why couldn't she see he was absolutely smitten with her? Did he really have to come right out and tell her, like John recommended?

No, too obvious - and too damned difficult, which was something he hadn't told John. Sherlock's deepest, darkest secret was that, no matter how hard he tried to just tell her how he felt, he always ended up with his size 11 feet firmly wedged in his mouth.

Well, not today, dammit! He was a man on a mission. This time was going to be different!

"Molly," he said again, dropping his voice to its deepest, smoothest register. The Voice that worked on so many others in the past. "If I wasn't everything that you think I am, everything that I think I am, would you still want to help me?"

Molly sighed and looked up at him in annoyance. "Jesus you fucking drama queen, did you misplace your hair gel or what?"

"Chinese craving," he blurted out, damning himself for once again allowing her to put him on the back foot. He'd meant to ask her for dinner, not just squawk out what he wanted to eat!

Well, what he wanted to eat aside from Molly's sweet little pus…

"Carving, did you say?" she asked, finally laying down her pencil and looking up at him. "A Chinese carving? Was it stolen?"

She stood up, brushing down her skirt (he loved it when she wore a skirt, she needed to do so more often) and shrugging out of her lab coat. "Is John not available, or is this one of those cases where you need a woman's touch?" She snort-laughed. Adorably. "Of course, I'm used to touching dead bodies so I'm not sure how womanly my touch might be, especially if we're going undercover-fake dating or fake engaged?" She frowned at her hands. "Fake dating, I'm betting, unless you brought along a ring?"

His head was practically spinning at how quickly this situation had spun out of control. "Dating, yes," he said. Oh wouldn't John be cackling with laughter to see his usually suave, sophisticated flatmate and partner in crime (solving) flailing about like this! And all because of sweet little Molly Hooper, self described morgue mouse, the only woman who'd ever managed to fluster him like this ( _well, aside from Irene Adler but that wasn't the same thing at all and had been over like a flash whereas he'd been floundering around his feelings for Molly for YEARS and wait, what was the question…?_ )

"Dating, fake," he repeated stupidly. "To, erm, get a closer look at a suspect. At Lee Ho Fook's, you'll enjoy their lemon chicken, it's your favourite, right? Lemon chicken?"

"Is the owner the suspect?" Molly asked as she dug around in her desk drawer, finally coming up with her oversized handbag - not the messenger bag today, no research being worked on, excellent, she wouldn't be in too much of a hurry to get home except for that blasted cat of hers. She overfed him anyway, would do him good to...damn, he'd lost track of the conversation again.

"Um, the owner, suspect...no, not a suspect," Sherlock said as her question finally filtered through the maze of panicky babble his mind had disintegrated into. "He'll let us stay as long as we need," he added as a bit of inspiration finally wedged its way through to his frontal lobe. "Did him a favour once."

Molly glanced up at him, a small smile quirking her lips. "Did you get him off a murder charge?"

"No," he replied, finally feeling his heart rate slow down to something approaching normal - and oh, blessed order reasserting itself in his mind! "Helped him put up some shelves. Shall we?"

As he pulled the door shut behind them, Molly turned her face up toward his, a small smile quirking the corners of her lips. "What?" he asked ( _not at all defensively, nope_ ).

"John said you would cock this up," she said. "Asking me out on a date," she added in clarification as he stared _(not stupidly, nope, not at all_ stupidly) at her. "But then, I probably shouldn't have teased you like I did."

And then, miracle of miracles, she reached out and laid her hand on his chest, right above his galloping heart. "But you really are a drama queen," she said with a cheeky little smile as she rocked up onto the tips of her toes and - bliss! - planted a soft little kiss on the corner of his mouth.

"And you really are going to be the death of me one of these days, Molly Hooper," he replied, daring to press a far less chaste kiss on her lips.

And because it was his lucky night, she did _not_ haul off and smack him one with her should-be-classified-as-deadly-weapon handbag - but she _did_ let him kiss her properly after he walked her home after dinner.


End file.
